


Where is My Gallant Knight

by mandysimo13



Series: Attend the Tale of John Watson [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fairytale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angst, Comedy, Crack, Drinking, Eventual sexy times, Fantasy, Fighting, Fluff, Galavant au, Humor, John's POV, Kissing, Lestrade is a saint, M/M, Questing, Slow Burn, Swearing, Virgin Sherlock, bed sharing, fairytales - Freeform, john is a goddamn gentleman, john's dramatic, laughing, new tags tba, sherlock's dramatic, some serious stuff, they're both drama queens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-03-01
Packaged: 2018-09-14 11:07:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 52,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9178837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: John's a washed up, out of shape, stinking, depressed, has-been hero who needs a swift kick in the arse. It's been a year since John's heart was broken and he lost all face. He's spent the year wallowing away in the pubs and drinking. But then Mycroft Holmes comes to him with a chance to get his glory back. And the quest is simple: find Mycroft's brother, Sherlock, and wake him with a kiss.Yes. A fairytale kiss.Sherlock has a job to do and his little self-imposed nap time is over. Time to get back to work and John is going to help him. But when Sherlock wakes he's furious at being woken and uncooperative. John is unsympathetic and drags Sherlock kicking and screaming back to his home where, hopefully, the madman will see sense and do his part to save the world. As they travel, John and Sherlock learn more and more about each other and John begins to wonder if there was more to breaking the spell than just a simple kiss.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a mix of a fairytale au and Galavant au. So get ready for tons of sarcasm and laughter mixed in with the traditional serious tones of a fairytale. Hope you all enjoy it!

John would be lying if he said he had lived a boring life. 

 

A youth spent in fighting, questing, flirting, and where had it got him? A name that conjures an image that they weave in tapestries and write about in poems and a head full of memories. Granted, it was nice to have instant recognition whenever you walked into a new town, complete with every yokel in the land wanting to buy an ale for the gallant, the famous, Sir John Watson. But memories are tricky things. Fallible and all too quick to kick a man when he’s down. 

 

Like, for instance, when you wake up and remember that no matter what you accomplish in life, the woman you love can still run off and marry the local king. Just because. 

 

_ Yup. Daybreak and already time for a drink _ , John thought, groaning into his pillow as he reached blindly for a handy jug of table wine. 

 

He hadn’t always been a slovenly has-been. Shaggy hair, unwashed, unshaven. There once was a time when John thought nothing in the world would knock him off his high horse. He had the finest clothes, the best armor, hired the most qualified squire in the land to assist him on his quests. John had amassed a wealth that any dragon would envy. In fact, he grew his own by nabbing the hoard of more than a few slayed dragons. He had worked hard to make himself successful and done any and everything to stay that way. He ran off bandits and churlish mercenaries. He slayed beasts of every kind. He went off to fight wars for the king. He rescued damsels in distress for god’s sake! 

 

But, despite feeling like he’d never come down from the heavens, one event made him crash to earth like Icarus to the sea. A wedding, almost a year gone by, stripped John of all sense of hero-ness. 

 

Unwanted, unasked for, the image of that fateful day replayed in his head even as he tried to erase it with the drink. The echoing voices of time past called to him from inside his head. 

 

_ John, newly returned from questing, came back to his idyllic town hoping for the arms of his lovely lady, Mary. But alas, the villagers screamed and wailed at him, “she’s been kidnapped, sir! By King Richard!” It had been a week since and no news of Mary had been forthcoming and John feared the worst for his poor sweetheart.  _

 

_ He rode hard for King Richard’s castle, determined to rescue Mary. While stopping just long enough to rest his horses at an inn, he learned that the next day was to be the date of a rushed, royal wedding. That King Richard had found himself a beautiful angel of golden hair and witty demeanor to be his new queen.  _

 

_ Armed with this knowledge, knowing that it could only be his Mary, he pushed his horse to ride through the night to make it just in time to see the sun rise above the castle. He was able to stop the wedding before the binding words “I do”. _

 

_ John swept into the over decorated cathedral, packed with courtiers and flowers and soldiers to rescue Mary from her kidnapper. Proudly, confidently, he strode the length of the rich, purple carpet laid out in the aisle, smiling all the way.  _

 

_ “Mary, my love! I am here to rescue you from your peril.” _

 

_ Mary beamed at him. “Oh, John!” _

 

_ “King Richard, you can have your guards fight with me from dawn till dusk, to an even draw. If you’re sporting for a tourney. And yes, you can offer her riches beyond all our imaginations, comfort for all her days, and endless support and an easy life. But I, only I, John Watson, can give her what her heart truly desires. True love. And that, my King, is what she chooses.” He ended his speech with a courteous bow just before them, waiting for his lady love’s confirmation.  _

 

_ Silence. Confusion. John looked up to see Mary’s pained expression. _

 

_ “Actually…” _

 

_ John’s stomach sank, mouth suddenly dry.  _

 

_ “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since King Richard kidnapped me and...I’m going to go with the fortune and security.” Her expression turned soft, guilty. “Just seems like an easier life, you know?” _

 

_ John couldn’t believe what he was hearing. The pain of rejection coupled with the public humiliation made his head swim. He was so shocked that he never had time to react before King Richard’s men grabbed him and carried him outside, the sound of Mary’s “I hope we can be friends!” calling after him before he was beaten like a rug.  _

 

_ And, god help him, he let them. He was a broken man, might as well look the part as well.  _

 

Grunting at the acidic taste of bad wine in this mouth, John swallowed it and the memory down. He flopped back into bed, willing his aching head to go stuff itself down a well. Peace, quiet, and a jug of decent ale were all he dared hope for these days. 

 

The door slammed open and John’s squire, Greg, came waltzing in, happily bidding him good morning. “How are we feeling today, Sir?”

 

“What in god’s name do you want, Greg?”

 

“I see we’re getting an early start on your to-drink list this morning,” Greg chuckled back. He pried the jug from John’s fingers and John protested loudly with groaning before sliding back down between the sheets. 

 

“You know ever since Mary-”

 

“Don’t say her name,” John groused. 

 

“-married the King,” Greg continued over him, “you haven’t been quite the same.”

 

“You don’t say,” John spat back sarcastically. 

 

“Don’t you think it’s time to get back out there? Go on questing again? Bring down a couple dragons, maybe a gryphon, enchant a few forest nymphs, keep that name of yours infamous.”

 

“A perfectly selfless suggestion, I’m sure.” John buried his head in his pillow, refusing to open his eyes and entertain the idea. “My questing has nothing to do with your squire duties and your own career at all.”

 

“None at all,” Greg facetiously agreed.

 

“You know I’ve given you more than a dozen chances to leave my employ. You’re the one insisting on coddling me.” John rolled onto his back to stare at his grubby ceiling. “And I let you because I am a selfish man.”

 

Greg sighed and crossed the room to look down at John. “Would you at least entertain the idea of a quest?” Silence answered him. “Because there is a man bringing with him a great opportunity. One that I think will whet your appetite for adventure again.” 

 

Greg strode over to the door and opened it, welcoming someone inside. “Sir John, I present to you, Lord Mycroft Holmes.”

 

A man, dressed impeccably in black breeches and coat, stepped into John’s tiny hovel and nodded his head in John’s direction. He gripped a walking stick in his hand, leaning on it slightly as he took in the details of John’s home. Greg saw himself out, giving Lord Holmes an opportunity to beg his case. 

 

“Sir John, I presume.”

 

John sat up, cursing his aching head as he did so. He looked at the man before him and grinned a crooked grin, giggling as he took him in. “So the legends say.”

 

“Hardly legends,” Mycroft said under his breath.

 

“Depends on who you ask.” John bent down to put his boots on. “State your business. The quicker you do, the quicker I can toss you out, eh?”

 

Mycroft rolled his eyes and said. “As your squire said, I have a quest for you,” the man stopped short and asked, “dare I ask what that smell is?”

 

John huffed a brief chuckle, rising from the bed. “That’d be me.”

 

Mycroft sniffed in disgust. “Right. Anyway, I’m sure you know who I am.”

 

“Yes, yes,” John began as he stalked his way over to his chair and table, searching for a bit of breakfast. “Lord Mycroft Holmes, heir to the realm of Posh-ville and advisor to your father the King. What could you possible want from me?”

 

“A quest that would be mutually beneficial.”

 

“That is how quests usually go. Mutually beneficial-y.”

 

“Two years ago my brother and I had an argument. I thought that it was rather minor but apparently I underestimated his emotions. He snuck out and ran away from home. After ten days of tracking we finally found him. He had locked himself in a tower and cast a spell upon himself.” Mycroft pulled out a well-worn letter and read it aloud, despite obviously having memorized the words.

 

“Dear brother-mine, you’re growing slow in your old age and added weight. I suggest laying off the cakes chef’s making and spend more time on your sparring. Can't have the future king keeling over due to a fatty diet, god forbid. Had you done so from the beginning, you might have prevented my taking the decision to bring me back out of your hands. Good luck breaking the spell. Ta-ta, don’t let the door hit your gigantic arse on the way out.” Mycroft calmed folded the paper and put it back in his pocket and added, “he has quite the flair for the dramatic.”

 

“And you obviously want me to go retrieve your stroppy brother is that it?”

 

“In a nutshell.” Mycroft leaned heavily on the walking stick and said, “there are certain parameters to this spell he put on himself that must be followed if it is to be broken.”

 

“What did you do,” John asked. 

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

Finding an apple amongst the debris on the table, John took a bite and asked again, “what did you do? You obviously did something to warrant such a, as you say, dramatic exit. And what sort of spell are we talking about? I’m not exactly a wizard or magician, here.” Not that John was terribly interested in donning his armor and charging out on his horse any time soon. Still, he was curious.

 

“That does not concern you.”

 

“It could,” John pointed out.

 

“It really couldn’t,” Mycroft insisted. 

 

Shrugging and taking another bite of apple, John motioned for the man to continue. “The spell my brother, Sherlock in case you were wondering, has put him in an eternal sleep.”

 

“Sounds like a hard prognosis to cure.”

 

“To break it,” Mycroft went on, ignoring John’s input, “requires two things. First, that he is not moved from his resting place. Secondly, that he be woken with a kiss.”

 

John laughed. 

 

He actually, truly laughed. From the depths of his belly, climbing up his throat and bursting from his mouth like a stream, his laughter gripped him suddenly and tightly. It had been so long since he laughed without abandon that his stomach and cheeks soon hurt with the convulsions. He wiped his tearing eyes and said, “sorry, sorry, that’s just.” He broke out into a brief laugh once more before sobering enough to get a sentence out. “Oh, that is rich. Thank you for that.”

 

“I’m glad to have amused you,” Mycroft said, clearly unamused.

 

“But that is some fairytale shit, Lord Holmes. And I’m no fairytale hero.”

 

“That’s not what the legends say.”

 

John huffed, suddenly unamused. “Hardly legends.” Another bite of apple. “You said so yourself.”

 

Mycroft eyed him for a long minute, categorizing details, making John want to squirm in his seat. After a few full minutes of heavy silence Mycroft said with a sneer, “what happened to you?”

 

John put his feet up on his table, leaning back and presenting his whole self, no longer caring what anyone thought. “I lost everything. Everything that meant anything to me. And my family has a nasty tendency to drown their sorrows in the drink.” He reached down to grab an empty bottle for emphasis before tossing it aside. “Add all that together and,” he gestured to himself and said, “ta-da!”

 

Mycroft looked pale, uncertain and disgusted. “Irrelevant. I need your skillset and unfortunately that skillset is attached to you.”

 

John huffed humorlessly under his breath, “irrelevant.” At once, John stood and said, “nice to meet you.” John pointed to the door, “door’s on the wall.” He spied an unopened bottle of wine and raised it in mock-cheer, before heading back towards his bed. 

 

Mycroft reached out and stopped him with a hand to John’s shoulder. “Please.” His voice screamed of a man unaccustomed to asking twice or saying please. “You will be generously compensated.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

“You’ll increase your fame and glory.”

 

“Oh, most definitely,” John agreed. 

 

“And you’ll serve a purpose besides being serving as an incredible mimic of a dungheap.”

 

“Absolutely.” John smiled at him, throwing an arm around Mycroft’s shoulder, leading him to the door.

 

“So, you’ll do it?”

 

John opened the door, smile growing wider. “Not a chance.” He shoved the rich ponce out his door before slamming it in his face. 

 

 

\\\~*~//

 

 

Several hours later John found himself in the local pub, staring at the bottom of his tankard. Thoroughly drunk and bent on assured destruction, he called to the barkeep. 

 

“Billy! Biiilly! I think there’s a hole in my tankard for you to fill.” He pushed the vessel towards the man and pouted his most innocent pout. He knew the boy found him pretty, even if John never humored it. Though, he had spent his last penny on dinner so maybe “singing” for his supper in Billy’s chambers would be worth it to keep himself in beer. 

 

Billy walked over, took the tankard and John smiled at him. The man looked at him with a sad look and said, “I’m gonna have to cut you off, John.”

 

“Come on, Billy!” John batted his eyelashes. “It’s me, your pal.”

 

“S’for your own good. You can’t pay for it anyway.”

 

“I’m sure we can come to an,” John draped his hand over Billy’s as it held his empty tankard. He let every ounce of honeyed flirtation filter into his voice, “arrangement.” 

 

Billy’s sad smile turned to a grimace as he plucked John’s hand off his own and dropped it unceremoniously onto the bar. “I don’t think so.” He walked off, taking John’s empty tankard with him. 

 

Desperate for another drink, John scanned the bar for a friendly face and found the last person, besides Mary, he ever wanted to see eyeing him smugly from the back corner. Burying the last shreds of his pride he got up and sauntered over to the man in question and dropped himself in the seat across from him.

 

“Well hello there, Lord Holmes. Can I buy you a drink?”

 

“No. But I’m sure you’d like me to buy you one.”

 

John waggled a finger at him. “Right, clever you are.”

 

“I will do more than that. I’ll buy your next meal and keep you in ale for the duration of my stay.”

 

John squinted at him in suspicion. “Why?”

 

“Because I want you to really think about my offer.” 

 

John sighed and ran a hand through his long, overdue for a cut, shaggy hair, and said. “Fine. I’ll humor you. Order up, then, please.”

 

True to his word, Mycroft ordered them what counted as a feast in John’s small town. Plates of sausages and cheese, a whole loaf of bread, a large meat pie, and even a fruit plate for dessert. John was thoroughly impressed. They ate in silence, John watching Mycroft as they ate. Their mugs never ran dry and Billy refrained from commenting on John’s new benefactor. 

 

After they had both eaten their fill, John was ready to leave for the night when Mycroft stopped him. “So what’s your story?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“Tell me, why is it that you are...the way you are?”

 

John shook his head. “Nope.”

 

“After all this,” Mycroft swept a hand over their empty plates, “I deserve a little backstory.”

 

“I never put out on the first date,” John quipped.

 

“Not what I hear.”

 

“Well, if you know that then surely you know what happened to me? I’ve become the laughing stock of the land.”

 

“I’d love to hear it in your own words, please.”

 

“If I do will you tell me why you came to me?”

 

Mycroft shrugged. “Sure. Why not.” He pointed to John, “but you first.”

 

John nodded and raised his mug in a silent plea for a fresh refill. After receiving it he delved into his sad tale. How he had gone off to find and kill an ogre that was terrorizing a far off village. How he had come back to hear that his love had been kidnapped by a king. How she had humiliated him with her rejection, spurning his love for her. How he didn’t fight the beating he got afterward. How he spiraled out of control, getting into fights in the pub and refusing quests left and right, leading many to believe he was washed up. 

 

“Pathetic,” Mycroft blurted out at a particularly flowery description of despair.

 

John blinked. “I’m sorry, didn’t you ask me to tell my story.”

 

“Listen, Sir John,” Mycroft drawled the title sarcastically, “the woman didn’t love you. And you show that she was right in her rejection by falling apart and making everyone believe that you’re broken.”

 

“Why did you even ask me to tell you,” John asked, hands thrown up in exasperation.

 

“Because I wanted to know just how far down to rock bottom you’ve fallen and you, John Watson, have sunk low enough to reach bedrock!”

 

John growled through his teeth, his small sense of pride smarting. “Then why ask me to go on a quest for you, hmm? You never said before and now clearly you find me unworthy of the task so why!”

 

“Because you are the last “hero” left worth asking!” Mycroft breathed deeply, trying to calm himself. “Do you think you were my first choice to wake Sherlock? You’re a fool if you did. I sent the best of men! Ten, in the last two years!” He added softer, almost a whisper, “none of them were able to wake Sherlock.”

 

A silence stretched between them uncomfortably. Finally, John broke it. “Bad kissers, then?”

 

Mycroft scowled. “So it would seem.”

 

“What else goes into this spell? What is it that they did wrong? Why do you think I’ll be the one to get it right?”

 

“I’m taking a chance here, Sir John. Magic is a fickle thing but it has rules and criteria and apparently none of the other knights had filled all the requirements. Something was missing.” 

 

“And you think I have it, is that it?” Mycroft nodded. Then John thought of something. “Why do you need your brother back so badly?”

 

Mycroft tilted his head ever so slightly, suddenly amused by the question. “You mean besides the ties of familial love?”

 

John smiled. “Obviously.”

 

Mycroft pursed his lips and tapped them with a finger, organizing his thoughts. After a breath he said, “I worry about him. Constantly. Always have. My brother has special talents, you see.”

 

“Magic apparently.”

 

“Only one of many, I assure you. We need him to come home so he can do a job.”

 

“Let me guess, left his room a mess when he left, did he?”

 

“Yes, but that’s beside the point.” Mycroft folded his hands and rested them on the table and looked to be deciding something. “I can tell you’re curious. Thirsty for a challenge despite the rot you’ve cultivated for yourself.” Mycroft raked his eyes over John and he felt his skin prickle beneath the man’s gaze, his hackles rising. “You’re not that different from my brother, you know. So dramatic. Making such a fuss over a woman who didn’t love you because you think that’s what you’re supposed to do after you lose someone. Supposed to wilt until something worth getting back up for comes along. Well, here’s your chance, John.”

 

Just drunk enough to truly want his old hero’s life back John leaned in, resting his own hands on the table. He fixed Mycroft with the best imitation of his serious stare from back in the day and asked, “what do you need Sherlock for.”

 

Mycroft quirked his lips in a smirk. “We need him to bring down Moriarty.”

 

John sagged back in his chair, utterly deflated. 

 

Moriarty. The most fearsome sorcerer whoever lived. And Mycroft wanted to take him out of the picture.

 

“Nope. Goodbye.” 

 

John rose and turned to leave and froze when Mycroft called to his back, “coward.”

 

John whirled on him and snarled. “What did you say.”

 

“Merely pointing out what’s right in front of me. A coward.”

 

“What I am is a man who has every intention of maintaining my attachment to life.”

 

“And what a fine attachment it is. Really, you maintain it well, John. Getting blind, piss drunk in the pub every night until even the barkeep won’t tolerate you anymore. Bravo.”

 

John reached across the table to grasp the lapels of Mycroft’s coat in his fists, rage surging through him. “It’s my life, damn it!”

 

“Some life,” Mycroft sneered softly. “You’re pissing it away when you know damn well what you should be doing with yourself. Making the world a better place by the way of your sword. Becoming a legend on horseback.”

 

John sagged, knowing the man was right. But was the old gallant John Watson still in him somewhere? He seemed so far away, drowned in booze and depression. 

 

Mycroft sensed him warring with himself, trying to decide between continuing to rot in depression and reaching for his former life. He gently pried John’s fingers from his coat and said, “everyone says you’re washed up. Finished. Broken.” He straightened his clothes and leveled John with a loaded gaze. “Prove them, and me, wrong. Take the quest. Make your legend.”

 

John rose to his full height and squared his shoulders. It was true. He had missed adventuring. Even while he couldn’t rouse motivation for nothing more than drinking, he hated every second he’d spent wallowing. Enough was enough. He would jump back in the saddle and regain his honor and pride. 

 

Nodding once he said, “Greg and I ride at dawn.” 

 

“Thank you, Sir John.”

 

Without another word John left the pub, stride full of purpose. He would do one more quest. One that would be sung about in epic poems. His name would join the likes of Achilles and Robin Hood. 

  
He would go wake Sherlock. 


	2. Chapter 2

The journey to Sherlock’s tower was suspiciously free of hardships. The weather was lovely and warm with the sun shining long into the day. The game was plentiful and Greg had no trouble catching their dinners. Fresh water was plentiful in their packs and on the road. The path was clear and free of bandits. Everything went perfectly and John distrusted their good fortune immensely. 

 

Quests were never so easy. Every challenge he had ever faced had at least one tiny, little, baby hiccup and the lack of any on their journey had John on edge. 

 

What got him really disgruntled was being robbed of the opportunity to train on the road. He left his village in such a hurry that he had no time to properly get himself back in shape and he felt it every time he tried to mount his horse. First time he tried, he got one leg up, grunted, then promptly fell from the stirrups like a rolly-poly child. Greg hid a chuckle in a cough and offered to help him up. It took three days of riding but he finally got the hang of getting back into the saddle, literally. 

 

_ One step at a time, Watson, _ he consoled himself. 

 

The journey to Sherlock’s tower took ten days and by the end of it John was itching for a hot meal, hot bath, and some action. Not necessarily in that order.

 

The two men rode into a large clearing. In the center of the clearing, an impeccable looking tower shot up from the ground like a beanstalk. The tower rose tall and proud and perfect. Not even a single branch of ivy gracing it’s exterior.. It was painfully idyllic for a rescue and John knew then and there that Mycroft was right; Sherlock certainly had a flair for the dramatic. 

 

Dismounting heavily, rubbing his chaffing thighs and groaning, John tried to stretch his limbs. 

 

“Having a hard time breaking it all in again, are we,” Greg snickered. 

 

“Oh fuck off, Greg.” John shook off the numbing ache from his limbs by bouncing on the tips of his toes and shaking his hands.

 

Greg watched him as he began to unload and make camp at the base of the tower. “You look like a chicken about ready to take off.”

 

“Oi, what’d I say? You’re not supposed to mock the hero,” John complained.

 

“Well, you’ve yet to save the damsel in distress.”

 

“I’ve save hundreds of damsels,” John defended.

 

“You forget, I’m your squire, John.”

 

John rolled his eyes and spread his arms in surrender. “Okay, fine, fifty damsels.” He pointed a finger in Greg’s direction. “Still impressive, though. How many damsels have you saved?”

 

“Well, there was that one gal back in-”

 

“Oh shut up,” John said, humor finding its way back in his voice. “Set up the camp while I look for a way into this infernal thing,” John said, gesturing to the tall as fuck tower. 

 

“Should be easy to find, wouldn’t you think? I mean, you did say he had sent other adventurers on this quest. They must have found a way in.”

 

“Come on, Greg,” John chuckled, rounding the side of the tower. “Things are never that-”

 

He stopped short as he came face to face with a very plain, and very obvious, door built into the side of the tower. “Obvious,” John finished, under his breath. 

 

He tried the door and found it opened easily. Quirking an eyebrow in confusion he peeked his head inside and found a dusty staircase. He stepped back out and closed the door, and looked all around him, sure that it was a trick. Seeing no one in the woods surrounding them he pinched himself, convinced he wasn’t awake. When a pinch failed to wake him he slapped his own face eliciting a hiss of pain. 

 

_ Well. Clearly awake then.  _

 

He opened the door more confidently, then, and checked to see if there were any booby traps waiting for them in the immediate entryway. Finding none he closed the door once more and went back to find Greg with camp already laid out. 

 

“Find anything promising,” Greg asked as he pulled their bedrolls from his horse. 

 

“Door’s open. And very much not hidden.”

 

“So, easy peasy, then?”

 

“Don’t know yet,” John said, grunting as he pulled his pack down from his own horse. “What I do know is that I’m starving.”

 

“Starving?”

 

“Yup. Famished.”

 

Greg pointed to the tower. “When you have a rescue to do?”

 

John waved his hand dismissively. “He’s been sleeping for two years. He can wait ten more minutes for me to eat something.”

 

“Not afraid of bad breath? You are going to have to kiss him.”

 

John bit into a piece of mutton jerky and talked with his mouth full. “Listen, I could eat a five course meal of garlic and probably have better breath than that guy. Hasn’t brushed his teeth in two years, my god, how am  **_I_ ** going to survive?”

 

Greg rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. “Spoken like a true hero.”

 

“Damn straight,” John said, taking a large swig from their waterskin. “Now that we’ve got a comfy place to sit you might as well join me.” He held out a strip of jerky and waved it tantalizingly. “You know you want to,” he sing-songed.

 

Conceding, Greg took the jerky and dropped heavily onto his bedroll to eat. Together they ate, speculating on what their potential travel companion might be like. Mycroft had said nothing other than dramatic and opinionated. Not much to go on.

 

“You think he knows how to handle a sword,” Greg asked.

 

John shrugged. “Who knows. Mycroft said he’s got magic. Might not need to know the sword. Not like he’ll need it anyway, if the trip to Posh-ville is as smooth as the trek here was.”

 

“You know better than that, John. Things are never as easy as they seem.”

 

“Have been so far. What could possibly go wrong now?”

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

Not long later, the two men made their way up the dusty, stone stairwell of Sherlock’s tower. Periodically they checked for booby traps but if there ever were any they had long been tripped by the many sets of feet that came before them. 

 

“Shit I’m out of shape,” John groaned, clutching the stitch in his side, gulping down air once they got to the top landing. He leaned heavily on one hand against a door that would let them into the top of the tower. 

 

“You’ve got to be kidding. That was nothing. You’ve climbed stairs twice that height! You’ve climbed mountains just for fun!”

 

“I’m well aware of my accomplishments, Greg!”

 

“Then quit your belly-achin’!”

 

“Oh Christ, my belly aches,” John complained, doubling over while trying to rub out the stitch in his ribs. 

 

“Why did I insist on remaining your squire,” Greg asked rhetorically.

 

“Because you love me.”

 

“So sure about that are you?”

 

John straightened and opened the door to find exactly what he was expecting. And still, he found himself surprised. 

 

A room lit only by the daylight coming in from the only window in the tower greeted them. Inside was a fireplace, a desk covered with writing utensils and equipment used for practicing alchemy, and a bed draped in a deep blue, velvet curtain.. The pair stepped inside to investigate the room, taking in all the non-details. Aside from the little desk and the bed there was nothing. Less of a bedroom and more of a large closet with a bed in it. A quick perusal of the contents of the fireplace showed the remnants of an ancient fire and a long dried potion in the bottom of a cauldron. 

 

John made a contemplative noise, unsure what to make of the sparse room.

 

“What’re you thinking, John?”

 

“I was just wondering where all the theatrics are. I mean, we’re greeted with an impressive tower in an impeccably kept lawn. And I want to know how he managed that because let me tell you, weeds and grass go faster than warts on a toad. And then we get inside and,” John swept his hand over the room, “nothing. Not a booby trap, not a dragon, not even a yippy little palace dog to distract with a steak.”

 

“You brought a steak?”

 

“Shut up, the point is...it’s odd isn’t it? For someone so bent on making an impression, you’d think he’d have his bedroom decorated to the gills.”

 

“Why don’t you wake him up and ask him.”

 

“Oh, I intend to,” John promised. 

 

He walked over to the bed and gently grasped the velvet and stopped short, suddenly terrified. Greg noticed his hesitation and asked him what was wrong. “What if he’s ugly?”

 

“For fuck’s sake, Watson, really?”

 

“It’s a legitimate concern!”

 

“You’re a prick.”

 

“Not disputing that, ta. But seriously, what if he’s a troll?”

 

“Then Mycroft can stuff him back under a bridge after he’s paid us for delivering him home. Get on with it!”

 

“If you’re so keen to see it done why don’t you do it, hmm?”

 

Greg crossed his arms, eyeing John with undisguised humor.  “I’m not the hero in this story. Besides, you've slayed dragons. What’s one ugly bloke got on a dragon?”

 

“More scales, knowing my luck.”

 

“Oh, just get on with it!”

 

“Fine!” With more energy than he meant to exert, John pulled the curtain back and was floored by what greeted him. “Oh thank god,” John breathed in relief.

 

Sherlock was beautiful. Ethereal. Skin the color of polished marble, lips the palest pink, hair and lashes a rich ebony. The man laid perfectly flat on his back, one hand resting gracefully above his head, the other draped across his chest. His long legs stretched out for miles in front of him and John followed them until they ended at his feet. He smiled to see Sherlock still wore his boots while he slept. The blue and silver clothes he wore matched the sheets perfectly, making him seem like a doll in a play set. 

 

Suddenly, John couldn’t wait to kiss him. 

 

John felt Greg come up behind him and whistle in appreciation as he took Sherlock in. “Well, that’s one fear down. Pretty enough for you?”

 

“Most definitely.” John laced his fingers together, stretching his arms out to crack his knuckles and grinned at Greg. “Time to wake the sleeping beauty.”

 

John sat on the bed, eyes sweeping over Sherlock’s still form, memorizing every detail. He was sure people would write poems about this moment and he wanted to savor everything so as to accurately describe the events for future generations. Gently, he brushed his knuckles across Sherlock’s forehead to push back the long curls that covered his dark eyebrows. He may be just a quest but that didn’t mean John couldn’t be tender. Finally, he licked his lips to make them soft and moist before bending down to kiss him, closing his eyes just before they touched. 

 

The effect was immediate. 

 

John was rudely, and savagely hit in the back of the head. “Ow, mother of fuck!” He sat up, eyes scrunched up in pain, believing Greg was the one who hit him. “What’d you do that for?”

 

“Why are you here,” a deep, baritone voice asked him. 

 

John’s eyes shot open and he saw the prettiest ball of fury he had ever seen staring up at him. And that was saying something seeing as he’d known his fair share of disgruntled kittens.

 

“I’d think that’d be fairly obvious. Saving you, you prick.” 

 

Sherlock punched him squarely in the jaw and said, “I did not asked to be saved! In fact, I left express instructions  _ not _ to be saved!”

 

John stood, putting distance between the irate man and himself, rubbing his sore jaw. For a man asleep for two years, his aim was impeccable. “You’ll have to take that up with your brother then.”

 

Sherlock grimaced and buried his fingers in his hair. “Mycroft! Of course my brother couldn’t keep his fat nose out of my affairs.” He addressed John directly and said, “well, get out so I can put another spell on myself. No chance in hell am I going back so,” Sherlock flicked his wrist towards the door, “out you go! Shoo!”

 

John chuckled. “I don’t think so. Your brother’s paying me good money to bring you home. He said you have a job to do.”

 

“A job, indeed,” Sherlock muttered. Then he grit his teeth and growled at John, “get out, before I throw you out.” 

 

John stepped up to the bed and leaned against the post, smiling haughtily at Sherlock. “Make me,” he challenged.

 

“Oh, for goodness sakes,” Sherlock grumbled before swinging his legs off the bed. He stood for approximately two seconds before crumpling to the ground like a sack of wet laundry. 

 

John stared down at him, laughing. “Legs a little lazy?”

 

“What do you expect? I’ve been asleep for...how long have I been asleep for, exactly?”

 

“Mycroft said two years.”

 

“That all? Hmph, definitely a stronger spell next time.”

 

“Won’t be a next time,” John promised, reaching down to help Sherlock off the floor. The man batted his hands away, insisting his could do it himself. John was having none of it. He called Greg over and together the two men hoisted Sherlock up and deposited him back on the bed, none too gently. 

 

“Quit manhandling me and leave me alone!”

 

“Wouldn’t have to manhandle you if you could walk,” John pointed out.

 

“Why don’t you do us all a favor and just leave. Tell Mycroft you couldn’t wake me and we’ll all just go back to being blissfully out of each other’s hair.”

 

John sighed and crouched down next to the bed to speak with Sherlock at eye level. “Listen, Sherlock, I’d love to let you suffer a bit for smacking me around, really I would. But you’re in no condition to be left alone and even I’m not that heartless. So, how about this? Why don’t we spend the night here, make sure you’re okay to walk and talk a bit about why you’re so reluctant to go home, and then maybe we can come to an arrangement. Sound good?”

 

Sherlock glared at him and weighed his options, not that he had many. Finally he sighed dramatically and said, “very well.”

 

“Excellent,” John replied. “Greg, pack up camp and move it up here. We’re having a little sleep over.”

 

“Sure thing, John.”

 

Greg quickly showed himself out and John rose to his full height once more. “Do you want to try walking again? Or do you want to eat first?”

 

“Eat? Why would I want to eat?”

 

John blinked once, uncomprehending. “Sorry, but I figured after sleeping for two years you’d be rather hungry.”

 

“Well, you guessed wrong.”

 

“How do you do that, by the way? Live for so long without food or water? And, for that matter,” John walked to the window and pointed down to the lawn. “How do you keep the grass cut short like that?”

 

Sherlock stared at him, clearly trying to work him out. “That is not a question I was expecting.”

 

“I’m serious,” John insisted. “Do you know how much money I’d save on lawn care if I didn’t have to rent goats to keep my lawn cut?”

 

Sherlock blinked at him rapidly. “You’re...you’re serious.”

 

“I just said so didn’t I?”

 

Sherlock stared for another long moment and then shook his head briefly to rid himself of some thought or another. Then he looked down at his hands distractedly and said quickly, “all of this, the tower, the grass, me, is a time lock spell. It stops growth and aging under certain parameters. Once the spell is broken time is released and everything grows and ages normally.”

 

“Amazing,” John said honestly. 

 

Sherlock’s head whipped up and his gaze seared into John. “You know you do that out loud?”

 

“Sorry?”

 

“No, it’s...fine. Please, go on saying nice things. It’s been awhile since someone’s been amazed by my skills.”

 

John had to laugh at that. He laughed freely, clutching his stomach and soon Sherlock joined him. It was to the sound of intense laughter that Greg returned, laden with their gear.

 

“Glad to know you lot are having a riot up here while I’m breaking my back working.”

 

“Sorry, Greg, let me help.” He strolled over to grab his pack and bedroll from Greg’s hands and the two men spread their rolls out on the floor so they could sleep whenever they chose. 

 

“Shall I get some firewood and get a fire started then, Sir?”

 

“That would be great.” John turned to Sherlock and asked, “think if we clean that cauldron we could cook in it?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Possibly. It’s been so long the active ingredients in that spell can’t be of any use anymore and therefore no longer effective. Might not taste very good, though, unless you scrub it.”

 

“I’ll not take my chances. Plus, we don’t have much clean water,” Greg said firmly. “Lastly, I am not dragging that thing down this bloody tower to clean it and hike it back up here. Cold dinner for us.” 

 

“Fine by me,” John said pleasantly. “But a fire would be nice for a warm sleep, don’t you agree?”

 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll get the firewood,” Greg said before heading back down the stairs.

 

John watched him go, happy that things were going so well. They had had an easy journey to find Sherlock, John was able to wake him, and they now had a cozy place to spend the night. Things were looking promising. 

 

John turned around to talk to Sherlock once more and found the man standing, clutching the bedpost for balance. “Well done, you,” John said, actually impressed. 

 

“It’s just standing, Sir John is it?”

 

“Oh, right! We haven’t been properly introduced have we?” John bowed grandly and said, “I am Sir John Watson. The man fetching the firewood is Greg Lestrade.”

 

“Charmed. You already know who I am, no need for all the fuss of formality.”

 

John smiled and watched as Sherlock took a tentative step towards him, one hand stretched out at his side for balance and the other curled around the bed post. Wobbling like a newborn deer, Sherlock let go of the post and took another step. John prepared himself to catch the man, sure he was too weak to do too much. 

 

When it seemed like Sherlock would fall again John rushed to catch him before he hit the floor again. His hands clasped firmly around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock’s hands clutched at John’s back for support. 

 

“Alright, enough for now, back into bed.” John dragged the man back to bed and put him back. When he stood back they eyed each other, still measuring. 

 

At length Sherlock stated, “you have questions.”

 

“Lots,” John agreed.

 

“Spill it, then.”

 

John crooked an eyebrow, folding his arms across his chest, highly amused. “Just like that?”

 

“Well, what else do you suggest we do? I can’t very well walk, yet. I doubt you brought anything to read with you and I don’t exactly have much here in the way of entertainment so, yes. Just like that.”

 

“Well, for starters, why don’t you have anything up here?”

 

“Isn’t it obvious?”

 

John pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nope, sorry. Not to me.”

 

Sherlock flopped onto his back and said, “what is it like in your funny little brain? Must be so boring.” He sat back up and said, “think about it. If I planned on sleeping for all eternity then why would I bring a whole lot of frills with me?”

 

John tilted his head thoughtfully. “Fair. I hadn’t thought about that.”

 

“Obviously.”

 

“Okay, next question.” John sat on his bedroll, knees pulled up so he could rest his arms on them comfortably. “Why’d you run away from home?”

 

“Nope. Next topic.”

 

“Okay, how about a magic trick?”

 

“Nooope. Don’t be dull.”

 

John huffed an exasperated laugh, already beginning to get why Mycroft might have had a difficult relationship with his brother.

 

"Why play twenty questions if you aren't going to answer any of them?"

 

"Ask something I feel like talking about and I will."

 

“Alright, how about telling me why so many other knights failed to break your spell? I assume there’s a reason.”

 

“Nooooope! God, why do you insist on asking questions about things I have no desire to expound upon?”

 

“Why don’t you ask me a question, then hmm?”

 

“Fine,” Sherlock replied curtly. “Who broke your heart, then?” John was stunned. His mouth dropped open in surprise and a sudden fury made him snap it closed again. “Ooh, hit a nerve did I? Not fun, is it?”

 

“How did you know?”

 

“Oh please, it’s very apparent that someone broke your heart.”

 

“It might be if you had been conscious at any point in the last year! Tell me,” John rose swiftly to his feet, “how did you know?”

 

“Testy, are we.”

 

“Tell me,” John said, frown fixing itself on his face.

 

Sherlock sat back on his bed, folding his arms and crossing his ankles, getting cosy before finally telling him. “You’ve recently shaved your face but your hair is still long, what seems to be a year’s worth of growth going by your comment earlier.” He pointed to John’s armor in its mesh bag. “Your armor is oiled but not polished, suggesting you took this “quest” on short notice and haven’t been doing much in the meantime with it though it shows clear signs of extensive use and repair. So you’ve worn it a lot, broken it in and repaired it many times over your ownership of it but not recently. You carry yourself like a man who’s accustomed to being held in high regard but with heavy bags under your eyes and the smell of someone just getting off the bottle, so you’ve lost face somehow. Lastly, your collar has a rip in it.”

 

John touched his collar. “My collar?”

 

“Lovers and squires tend to do the mending but since you have a squire in your employ I gather your old lover used to do it for you. Since you haven’t let your squire repair it, it stands to reason you miss the loving touch of someone taking care of your laundry.”

 

John’s anger dissolved and was replaced by awe. Sherlock had picked up his whole life for the past year in just a few details, reading it back to him with glaring accuracy. He could do nothing but whisper, “extraordinary.”

 

Sherlock, who had been looking off towards the window, snapped his gaze back to John. “What did you say?”

 

“Extraordinary. Simply extraordinary,” John said, now fully interested in Sherlock. He took a few steps toward, unable to stop himself.

 

“Th-that’s not what people normally say.”

 

“Oh? And what do people normally say?”

 

Sherlock smirked at him, “burn him.”

 

Once more, John felt the urge to laugh. To giggle. Sherlock was enchanting and infuriating. First he was hitting him and yelling at him then he was laughing with him over the silliness of a perpetually cut lawn. He refused to answer questions about himself but threw John’s whole life back at him in shocking detail but without any real malice. More like a cat swatting at someone who had backed him into a corner, trying to draw blood in self defense. 

 

He intrigued John to no end. 

 

Their attention was drawn to the stairwell where Greg struggled in carrying an armful of firewood. 

 

“No, no, please, keep on talking and ignoring a man in need of help!”

 

“Should I get you some wax for your cross,” John joked, taking half Greg’s load from him.

 

“Ha-bloody-ha,” Greg said, tired.

 

In no time at all they had a fire going and John helped Greg pull out some food for their dinner. At the smell of jerky and cheese and inhuman growling echoed the walls of the tower. John and Greg stiffened in fear before Sherlock told them to calm down. “It’s just my stomach,” he said, pout on his face.

 

John smirked. “Thought you weren’t hungry.”

 

“Apparently my body disagrees with me.”

 

John and Greg laughed lightly and they moved to sit by Sherlock’s bed, bringing their food with them. 

 

“Stay off the bed with your food,” Sherlock warned. “I don’t need any extra crumbs in my bed.”

 

“Why do you care? After tonight you won’t be sleeping in it,” Greg reasoned.

 

“Says who,” Sherlock asked, taking a hearty bite of cheese.

 

“Says us,” John stated. “We still have a quest to finish.”

 

“I don’t care a whit for your quest. Once you’re gone I’m going back to sleep and I refuse to have my bed infested with bugs because you lot left crumbs in my sheets.”

 

“I thought we were going to come to work this out, Sherlock. Come to an understanding?”

 

“I don’t see where we both benefit from my going back. And I have no desire to go back. Ergo,” he nibbled a bite of jerky and swallowed a gulp of water, “I’ll not be joining you.”

 

John frowned and shared a look with Greg. He liked Sherlock, but he would not let the brat cheat him out of reward from a quest when he’d already come halfway. He decided to table the conversation and come back to it later. Perhaps he could wheedle out of Sherlock why he was so reluctant to go home. 

 

Eventually, the long ride had John and Greg yawning and swaying as they sat.

 

Sherlock looked on them with pity. “You can’t very well leave if you look like you’ll fall off your horse. So, graciously, I will let you two sleep here tonight. But you’re going to leave at daybreak and leave me be and go back and tell my brother you failed at waking me. I’m sure he’ll pay you a small consolation fee and hopefully give up on bringing me home.”

 

John didn’t argue. Greg banked the fire and they all got comfortable in their respective beds. John closed his eyes, willing his body to relax on the stone floor. Much less comfortable than the ground outside, rocks and sticks aside. He felt Greg shift beside him and listened to Sherlock’s sheets rustle as he settled beneath them. Once he was reasonably sure the other two men were sound asleep he rolled onto his back and began formulating a plan. It didn’t take him long to smile at his cleverness and, with a plan fixed in his mind, he let himself drift to sleep.

 

 

\~*~ /

 

 

The next morning John woke to find Sherlock leaning over the bed staring at him. 

 

“That’s really creepy, you know,” John croaked hoarsely.

 

“You’re still here.”

 

John raised his head enough to look at the sunlight streaming through the window. “It’s barely past dawn. Course I’m still here.”

 

“You should go or you’ll lose the whole day.”

 

John sat up, rolling his stiff shoulders. He looked down at his side to find Greg still asleep. He needed the man’s help if his plan was to work so, rather than wake him, he decided to help himself to some breakfast and stall for time. He reached into his pack and, using his body as a shield, he rummaged not only for their dried goods but for the two bottles of liquid he would need to put his plan into action. Setting those at the top of his pack, he stood with a hunk of bread and cheese in his hands and made to break off chunks for all three of them.

 

“Are you hungry,” John asked.

 

“Will eating with you make you leave quicker,” Sherlock asked, irritated.

 

“Why do you want to be rid of me,” he asked good-naturedly. 

 

“I don’t,” Sherlock answered quickly. He seemed to regret his words and rushed out his next words. “We just don’t have the same end goals for our meeting and I don’t want you to be out galavanting longer than you have to.”

 

John snorted back a laugh. “Galavanting?”

 

“Adventuring, questing, needlessly risking your life,” Sherlock iterated exasperatedly. “Whatever you’d like to call it.”

 

John chuckled, shaking his head and handing Sherlock his breakfast. “You’re something else, you know.”

 

Sherlock huffed, “so I’ve been told.”

 

Greg soon woke and broke his fast and the two adventurers started to pack their belongings. Sherlock stood, stretching, definitely more stable than he had been the day before.  _ That bodes well for me, then,  _ John thought wryly. While Sherlock was doing walking lunges to stretch his long ignored muscles, John whispered his plan into Greg’s ear. With Greg on board, John began to put his plan into action. 

 

He dug into his pack and, taking a quick glance up at Sherlock who was currently jumping in place while staring out the window, he uncorked the two jars and tipped them over a spare scrap of cloth. 

 

Then he rose and asked Sherlock, “hey, Sherlock. Could you come here a second? I have a question.”

 

“If the question is “am I ready to see you gone” the answer is yes.” Still, he crossed the room and stopped just in front of John. “What do you need?”

 

“I need you to smell this,” John said, handing him the cloth.

 

Without asking why, Sherlock raised it to his face and his eyes immediately rolled back into his head. He wilted and John caught him before he could fall and pressed the cloth more securely over Sherlock’s nose and mouth, making sure the man passed out entirely. 

 

“Nighty night, Sherlock,” John whispered, stuffing the cloth in his pocket. 

 

Moving quickly, the two conscious men gathered their belongings. Greg shouldered their supplies while John scooped Sherlock up in his arms and together they made their way down the stairs to their horses. John slung Sherlock over his own horse and secured him with rope so he wouldn’t slip while they made their way to Posh-ville.

 

With everything packed and ready to go, John lead them away from Sherlock’s tower. 

 

Two hours later, their blissfully silent trek through the woods was sharply ended when Sherlock screamed, “John Watson you complete, and utter cock!”

 

John just chuckled and replied, “morning sunshine.”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock struggled against the ropes tying him to John’s saddle for a full minute before crying out in frustration. John came round to look him in the eye, getting an endless amount of glee from watching Sherlock shift around in the saddle. He pet his horse to calm her and asked, “problem?”

 

“Let me down this instant!”

 

“Why?”

 

“You know damn well why! I am not some damsel in distress in need of being carted back home!”

 

“Well, definitely not a damsel. But you seem to be experiencing some distress,” John chuckled.

 

Sherlock’s lips curled in anger. “Gee, I wonder why.”

 

“It would be so much easier if you were to just calm down and behave.”

 

“As much as I would  _ love _ to make your life easier,” Sherlock spat sarcastically, “I’m afraid you’ll just have to get used to disappointment.”

 

John continued to pet his mare’s neck, unhurried by Sherlock’s tantrum. “If you’re so keen to be free why don’t you just do your magic thing and break yourself free?”

 

Greg added, “yes, why don’t you?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Thank you for reminding me of my skills, gentlemen! I had completely forgotten about magic until this very moment!,” he shouted sarcastically. 

 

“It would certainly be a treat,” John told him, curious as to why Sherlock hadn’t tried already.

 

“Except that I can’t right now,” Sherlock pouted petulantly. 

 

“Why?”

 

Sherlock glared at him. “Piss off.”

 

John bent at the waist to be eye level with him and poked his nose like he would a child’s. “That’s not very nice.” Sherlock swiped at him, trying to smack his hand away and missed entirely. John chuckled and straightened. “Tell you what, I’ll let you down if you promise not to run off and get yourself lost in the woods.”

 

Sherlock huffed and folded his arms, contorting himself into the world’s oddest hanging pretzel to emphasize his point. “I promise no such thing.”

 

“Well then,” John said, patting him on the head before walking around to his horse’s front to begin leading them once more. “You’ll just have to get cozy. Enjoy the ride! My feet are aching and I would love the chance to sit any time, now.”

 

Sherlock grumbled inaudibly but John didn’t press him for more conversation. He hoped that the sulky man would see sense sooner or later so he wouldn’t have to present him to Mycroft trussed up like a Christmas goose. The three traveled in silence for the most part, keeping themselves quiet to avoid any roving bandits. That left them ample time for daydreaming and introspective thought. John tried to put himself in Sherlock’s shoes; what would have pissed him off enough to run off and put a spell on himself that caused eternal sleep just to make a point? Why not just disappear entirely and live life as he wished? If he had magic that didn’t seem entirely out of the realm of possibility. Or, why not just kill himself outright if living was an unbearable option? Why eternal sleep? What purpose did that serve? He could understand being upset by being “manhandled”, as he put it. Upset with being basically kidnapped and sent back to face fates unknown. 

 

And why couldn't he use magic to free himself? Was he just stubborn or lazy? Had he lost some of his abilities, being asleep for so long? Did he need to regain power after being inactive for so long? Had he forgotten his spells? What was being asleep for two years like? Did he dream? If so, what did he dream about?

 

So many questions swirled around in his head that John thought he’d go dizzy with them. Sherlock was a mystery that kept him puzzled for hours and he expected to be puzzled by him for the next twelve days to Posh-ville. 

 

As night grew closer, John suggested they find a place to set up camp. They found a space that was flat enough to set up a tent soon enough and the two free men set to making camp. Greg went off in search of firewood while John pulled their supplies off their horses and tethered them for the night. John often found his gaze wavering over towards Sherlock as he did his part making camp. He had kept his arms folded, a tantrum clearly winding itself tight, ready to spring forth the second Sherlock was released. A smart man would keep him tied up until he needed to water a tree or until they got to town. 

 

But John couldn’t stop the trickle of sympathy that traveled down between his ribs, looking at him. It couldn’t have been comfortable, laying across a saddle all day long. Compassion ruled over logic and he decided to trust that Sherlock wouldn’t scarper off at the first taste of freedom. John didn’t gamble much...anymore. Mostly because he had no more money to spare. But he’d bet good money that Sherlock wasn’t going to flee right away. Resolved, when Greg returned and began setting the fire up, John walked over to his horse to untie Sherlock.

 

“Ready to come down now?”

 

“Are you going to set me free,” Sherlock asked, clearly not expecting John to answer in the affirmative.

 

Proving him right, John replied, “no. But it can’t be comfortable, lying like that all day. And I’m sure you need to relieve yourself. I know we gave you water earlier. Don’t you want to stretch your legs a bit?”

 

“Only if by “stretching my legs” you mean walking back to my tower.” He glared at John and said, “I told you before, I have no intention of making this easy for you, John. If you’re feeling guilty, that is your own conscience and not my problem.”

 

John sighed, folding his arms across his chest and shaking his head at the man. Ready to suffer out of spite when he could be moderately comfortable for the night. He knew it wasn’t the smartest thing but John didn’t want to add more aggravation and strife between them. He wanted Sherlock to trust him, though he didn’t examine too closely as to why he did. So, with a small amount of trepidation, John crouched down to untie the knot under his mare that had held Sherlock in place all day. Gently, he unwound it from the horse and Sherlock, coiling it around his arm as he went. 

 

Finally free, Sherlock slid off the horse and stared at John. His face still glowed with anger but it now held a touch of confusion as well. He gestured to the ropes and asked, “why’d you untie me? Aren’t you afraid I’ll run?”

 

John shrugged. “You might. But you might not. Either way, the horse needs a rest from carrying your arse around all day long.” He turned towards the now crackling fire and waved to Sherlock over his shoulder. “Now, come on, help set up the tent so we can sleep tonight.”

 

Tentatively, Sherlock followed, expression growing more and more confused by the second. John and Greg worked beside each other in harmony, passing things back and forth, setting up the tent and chucking in their gear. John knew it would be a tight fit between the three of them but there was nothing for it. When all was set and done, John was getting ready to look for some small game for dinner and Sherlock hadn’t lifted a finger to help. 

 

John told Greg where he was off to and took off, forcing himself not to give Sherlock the satisfaction of his attention. He knew that Sherlock was itching for an argument, knowing John wanted to tell him to stay put and not run off. Having known the man less than a day it was apparent the man liked to verbally spar and giving in would give the man entirely too much smug pleasure. So, instead, he ignored him, and took off into the woods to hunt. 

 

It didn’t take long to hear footsteps in the underbrush behind him.

 

“If you insist on following me then would you mind treading more lightly? You’re scaring off dinner,” John whispered to him. 

 

Purposefully poking at John’s temper, Sherlock stomped on a twig, scaring a rabbit out of a bush. It scampered off quickly and John pursed his lips in silent frustration. He straightened, pulling himself to his full height, and slowly turned, eyeing Sherlock with undisguised irritation.

 

“What’d you do that for?”

 

“Oh, I’m sorry? Is my presence bothering you?”

 

“Right now? Absolutely. Why don’t you just start yelling and screaming, huh? Scare off all the game and bring the nearest band of thieves down on us?”

 

Voice still even and low, Sherlock said, “I just might. Would be the perfect distraction for ditching you lot.”

 

“Really? How are you going to run when you’re being cornered by brutes with weapons and unable to use your magic, hmm?” He waved a hand at Sherlock, asking, “what’s with that, by the way? You’ve had all day to use it. You could have been out of here in no time and we could have caught dinner without all your stomping around.”

 

Sherlock snapped his eyes away from John’s, clearly avoiding the question. He muttered something like “none of your nosy beeswax” before stomping off towards camp. Half of John hoped that he would take off and head back to the tower. He was sure he could come up with an excuse as to why they showed up empty handed. The other half of him wished Sherlock would just calm down and talk to him. 

 

Sighing heavily, he closed his eyes, and crouched in the underbrush, listening for the tell-tale signs of dinner afoot. 

 

Just as darkness enveloped the forest, John was able to snag a pheasant. Satisfied, he walked back towards camp, plucking the bird on the way. Back at camp, he tossed the half-plucked bird to Greg and told him to finish it up. He dropped heavily on a fallen log and slipped a boot off to rub at his feet.

 

“Where’s His Highness?”

 

Greg waved an arm to the tent. “Sulking in the tent. What’d you say to him?”

 

“Asked him about the magic thing again.”

 

Greg nodded and hummed. “Does seem rather odd, not using it. Wonder what’s wrong.”

 

John shrugged. “Beats me.”

 

After cleaning the bird, Greg spit it and threw it on the fire to cook. The two men chatted amicably, rubbing out their aches from their walk. Out of solidarity, Greg had walked his horse alongside John and the knight admired, not for the first time, Greg’s loyalty. The man had stuck by him through some tough, dark times. And he knew he hadn’t always done much to inspire such a loyal squire. 

 

Out of the blue he asked Greg, “why’d you stick with me, Greg?”

 

Greg’s eyebrows knit together in concern. “Sir?”

 

“This last year. I know I’ve been a right shit. You must’ve had offers. It was no secret I’ve been out of the hero game for awhile. But you...you stayed. Why?”

 

Greg smiled shyly, clasping his hands and bowing his head humbly. For a long time he said nothing and John was sure he wasn’t going to get an answer. But then he stoked the fire, turned the pheasant, and then told John, “because deep down, I think you’re a good man.”

 

John blinked in surprise at him.

 

“You’re a complete tit, of course. Ridin’ my arse night and day, polishing your boots and fetching the firewood all by myself. But you’ve done a lot of good and I knew you’d come around eventually. All you needed was the right quest.” He looked at the tent momentarily before continuing. “It’s been an honor to ride into battle beside you, to be there while you made a legend of yourself. Even if I’m just a side character.” He knocked his shoulder against John’s and chuckled, “I’m  _ your _ side character.”

 

John grinned and knocked him back in return. “Just for that, you get first pick of the bird.”

 

Greg laughed in disbelief. “You’re kidding?”

 

“Nope. I know how much you enjoy a juicy thigh,” John said with a wink. “By all means, take the first one.”

 

Greg clapped him on the back and said, “this is what I come to this friendship for; your rare moments of graciousness.” He smirked and added, “that and watching you try to mount your horse. That’ll keep me warm all winter long, I imagine.”

 

John rolled his eyes and shoved Greg off the log. “Just for that, I take it back! I get both thighs, thank you very much!”

 

“Huh-uh! No takesies-backsies!”

 

A small wrestling match ensued that ended with both men flat on their back, breathless with laughter. John felt lighter than he had in months. He should have taken a quest months ago, gotten out into the woods, back into the saddle to wash off the stench of despair. Groaning, he sat up and inspected the pheasant. Finding it done, he made good on his word and let Greg take the first pick of the meat. They called to the closed tent for Sherlock to join them but only received silence in return. Mutually shrugging, they saved the legs and a portion of breast for Sherlock, just in case.

 

The warm, juiciness of the pheasant flooded John’s mouth and he groaned aloud. It was simple fare, no seasoning but for the charcoal flavor of the burning wood and smoke, but it was yet another reminder of where John should have been all along. And he savored it immensely. Once finished with the meat, John licked the grease from his fingers and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. He washed it all down with a healthy swallow of water. Sloshing the contents with a little shake he mentioned to Greg that they needed to find water soon, their skins almost empty. 

 

John stood, stretching his muscles and rubbing his satisfied belly. “Think Sherlock’s ready to eat? He didn’t come out when we called.”

 

“Maybe he slipped out,” Greg reasoned. “If he did, we’re splitting the rest.”

 

“Agreed. Still, we should check.” John gathered the bowl with Sherlock’s dinner and stood outside the tent, listening for movement. He cleared his throat and called, “Sherlock, you still in there?” Silence. “Okay, ready or not, here I come,” he warned before pulling back the flap of the tent and poking his head in. 

 

Square in the middle of the tent, lay Sherlock. He was flat on his back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. He almost looked asleep, except for the silent moving of lips. John crouched to climb into the tent, trying to figure out what the man was doing. He kneeled next to him and Sherlock made no movement to acknowledge John’s presence. Curiosity gnawed at him and John watched Sherlock’s lips move, trying to figure out what he was doing. 

 

_ Is he doing an incantation of some kind? Singing to himself? Telling himself a bedtime story?  _

 

It was too dark to tell, either way. Feeling the need to find out itch under his skin, he braced his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head and hovered his body over Sherlock, leaning his ear down to get close enough to try and puzzle out Sherlock’s words. He forced himself not to breathe, desperately trying to suss out Sherlock’s internal rant. As he leaned closer, he felt the little puffs of Sherlock’s breath as his mouth formed soundless words and they warmed John’s cheek. For long minutes, he strained to hear something, anything. The silence was oppressive and John’s skin crawled with it. 

 

Then Sherlock’s voice sent his heart into his throat. “Care to explain yourself, Sir John?”

 

John shot upward as if burned, letting out what he would later swear was  _ not _ a shriek.

 

Greg threw open the flaps of the tent and shouted, “what the devil’s goin’ on in here?”

 

“Sir John is leering over me like a dog at a bone,” Sherlock huffed moodily.

 

“I am not!”

 

“Then what, pray tell, were you doing caged over me?”

 

John sat back on his heels and averted his gaze. “You were mumbling something. And you didn’t speak up when I called your name. I was worried,” he reasoned.

 

“I was busy,” Sherlock snapped. 

 

“With what? Annoying me?”

 

Sherlock, still laying in the center of the tent, threw his hands in the air with a sigh. “How could I possibly annoy you whilst entertaining myself, alone, in the tent?”

 

“You were “entertaining” yourself,” Greg asked saucily, chuckling into his fist.

 

Sherlock sat up marginally, supporting himself on his forearms. “Oh very mature, Greg. Not  _ that _ kind of entertaining.” He flopped back down and crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “I find that whole process dull.”

 

“Maybe you’re just not doing it right,” Greg offered.

 

“Thank you for that unasked for opinion!” Sherlock glared at John and asked, “now, again, and I do hate repeating myself, explain what you were doing?”

 

John snatched up the forgotten bowl of pheasant and waved it under Sherlock’s nose. “Bringing you dinner, you berk.” He shoved it into Sherlock’s hands, “here. Eat.”

 

Sherlock sniffed it and handed it back. “Don’t want it.” He curled onto his side, facing away from John and said, “bugger off.”

 

“Sherlock, you have to eat.”

 

“Who says?”

 

“Says me,” John insisted.

 

“Gonna be a long day tomorrow with an empty stomach,” Greg tried.

 

“Every day with you idiots is a long one,” Sherlock spat back. 

 

“Now how would you know,” John tried, tempted to upend the bowl onto Sherlock’s head. “You’ve only been with us, what, two days?”

 

“And yet, they’ve both been tedious and not at all what I would call a “roaring good time”,” Sherlock replied, fingers making air quotes around his words.

 

“Still, I’ll not have you fainting. You’re still not at full strength and I don’t need to play nursemaid as well as hero.”

 

“Oh, what a terrible challenge,” Sherlock said with mock-sympathy. “And what would you know about my health anyway? You barely know me?”

 

“I know that you’re a stubborn arse who continually refuses food put in front of you and that if you were able to use your magic to prevent us from rescuing you, you would have done so. Clearly, you can’t. So you need to eat and recover.” 

 

Sherlock continued to face away from him, sullen in his silence.

 

John frowned and placed the bowl on the floor in front of Sherlock’s face and said, “we’ll leave you be for now. But that bowl better be empty when we come back to sleep, understood?” Sherlock made no reply and John decided to drop it rather than fight. If he ate, he ate. If not, Greg and he would have a small bedtime snack before turning in.  _ See if I care, _ John thought snottily. 

 

John rejoined Greg outside the tent and the two resumed their easy conversation from earlier. They planned out what path to take the next day and where they might resupply before making their way to Posh-ville. No more than two hours later the pair were growing weary and decided to turn in for the night. They banked the fire and checked the horses ties before crawling back inside the tent. 

 

Inside, they found Sherlock huddled tight into himself, sleeping soundly, an empty bowl occupying the center of the tent. 

 

“Well, at least he ate,” Greg whispered. 

 

“He’s got some sense after all,” John chuckled back. Then he had a thought. He gestured to the remaining space with his thumb and then between the two of them and asked, “who’s pickle in the middle?” 

 

“Heh, not me, mate.” He clapped John on the back and made a welcoming motion into the tent. “After you. He is your quest after all. Would be a shame to break up such a lovely, budding relationship.”

 

“Aw come on, what if he snores?”

 

“You snore,” Greg countered. 

 

“I do not!”

 

“Yes you do,” Sherlock’s sleepy rumble called.

 

“You’re supposed to be asleep,” John told him.

 

“Who am I, your ward, now? Christ, someone, just pick a spot and be done with it!”

 

John pointed at Greg and said, “you’re my squire, you’re supposed to do what I say. Get in the middle.”

 

“You’re supposed to be the hero,” Greg pointed out. “You’re supposed to take one for the team. You get in the middle.”

 

“Oh for the love of,” Sherlock growled. Without warning he shot up, grabbed John’s wrist and dragged him into the tent, effectively making him sprawl in the middle. “There, problem solved. Now, the both of you, get in, pipe down, and let me sleep in peace!”

 

John was too stunned to respond. Greg took advantage of John’s stupor and climbed in next to him, cutting off any retreat he might have had. The decision out of his hands, John resigned himself to being stuck in the middle all night and resolved to fix that the next night. He shifted slightly, holding himself stiff so he didn’t touch Sherlock, not sure how contact, no matter how accidentally, would be received. He lay awake longer than the other two, not used to holding himself so still. But eventually the day of walking took its toll and he fell into a dreamless sleep. 

 

When he awoke the next morning it he was to the dim sunlight filtering through the fibers of roof of the tent and a heavy weight on his chest. Startled by the unfamiliar weight, he looked down to find Sherlock wrapped around his torso. The man snuffled softly, burying his face into John’s neck and he was mortified to find his arms holding Sherlock securely against his chest. 

 

_ When the hell did this happen? _

 

John closed his eyes immediately and counted to ten and slowly opened them, hoping to be dreaming. He frowned to find that he was in reality cuddling Sherlock. The sleeping man had no apparent shame about their positions. He only snuggled closer, arms tightening around John's middle incrementally, and continued snoozing away. John chanced waking him by turning his head to find Greg’s spot empty. His internal dialogue started roving on without him. 

 

_ Had Greg seen us? Was he uncomfortable? Was he having a laugh? God I need to piss. But it’s like waking a sleeping cat in your lap. Can’t just get up and risk waking them. Bad manners. What do I care anyway about “bad manners” anyway? He’s the stubborn brat, not letting me do my job and rescue him, not telling us anything about himself. I wonder if Greg caught breakfast. Wish we had some ale. An ale and some sausage would be just perfect this early in the morning. God, my bladder’s screaming.  _

 

Just when he thought John would have to take matters into his own hand and try to slide out from under the limpet, Sherlock shifted, rolling off him and curling into a ball. He yawned and said, “go on. Go find a tree. I’m sure Greg’s got something fixed for breakfast.”

 

John blinked twice before his brain caught onto Sherlock’s dismissal. He vowed he would find out one day how Sherlock did that, even in his half-conscious state. He rolled onto his knees, crawling out of the tent to complete mission one of the day: empty his bladder.

 

Fully relieved, John spent a few minutes stretching and chatting with Greg about what kind of breakfast they would prefer. Greg opted for a plate of scrambled eggs and big slices of ham. John agreed, wishing for some greasy potatoes as well. They both felt a little downtrodden, looking at their rations of apples, bread, and more mutton jerky. John loved adventuring but he did not always enjoy the on-the-road-fare.

 

Sherlock stepped out of the tent and walked off to relieve himself before coming back to snatch up an apple. He bit into it and said, “seeing as there’s no way out of this mess for the time being, I suppose I’ll assent to walking today.”

 

“Great,” John said, smiling as he chewed. “Then Greg and I can ride. We’ll go slow so you can keep up.”

 

Sherlock huffed. “How magnanimous.”

 

“Aw, don’t be like that.” John stood to pat Sherlock’s shoulder. “If you get tired, we can always lay a blanket on one of our horses and you can ride. You ever ride bareback?”

 

“I’ll have you know, I’m an accomplished rider. Had my own stables back home.” He stared off into the distance. “I wonder what they did with my horses. Mycroft probably sold them, just to spite me.”

 

“Awful territorial for someone who claimed he was never going back.” Sherlock just shrugged and said no more. 

 

In no time, the camp was packed up and knight and squire had mounted their horses, Sherlock walking between them.

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

It only took an hour or so before Sherlock was complaining. “This is so tedious.”

 

“You wanted to walk,” John reminded. “And it’s still early. Lord knows you can use the exercise.”

 

“That’s a lot coming from you Sir Muffintop.”

 

“Hey now,” John said, thoroughly offended. “I do not have a muffintop.” 

 

Sherlock poked his unarmored side, finger digging mercilessly into the slight flab there. “That’s funny. Cause to me you feel like bread dough.”

 

“You got some nerve,” John groused, kicking him lightly in the shoulder. “What’d I ever do to you to deserve this abuse?”

 

“Well let’s see,” Sherlock ticked off on his fingers. “First you break into my tower-”

 

“Door was open,” John defended.

 

“Then you rifle through my things-”

 

“You had like five things in that tower-”

 

“Then you force yourself upon me-”

 

“How else was I supposed to wake you? And you punched me-”

 

“Then you knock me out using, I want to say Hogswort and Valerian root-”

 

“Well spotted-”

 

“Then you kidnap me!”

 

“For all that is flat and green,” Greg complained loudly. “You two sound like an old married couple! Lay off or I’ll separate you!”

 

“Please do,” the two men replied in unison. 

 

All three stopped their trek abruptly and then the forest was filled with laughter. The mood immediately lightened and John agreed to let Sherlock up on his horse if it would keep him from complaining. He slid off his horse and dug through their satchels on Greg’s horse for a saddle blanket. Finding one, he turned around to find Sherlock already mounted in the saddle looking at him expectantly.

 

“Oh, hell no! No, you are not usurping my saddle!”

 

“I’m not?,” Sherlock asked innocently. He looked down, emphasizing his position on the horse and added, “I think I am. Hop on up, hero. Any knight worth his salt can ride barebacked.”

 

“But...but that’s my horse!”

 

“And you made the mistake of dismounting.” Sherlock patted the empty space behind the saddle invitingly. “Come on, we haven’t got all day. Can’t keep His Fatness waiting.”

 

“Just get on the horse, John,” Greg tried soothingly. “You two can switch later.”

 

Grumbling, none too happy, John threw the blanket onto the horse’s back. When she nickered in surprise, he cooed his apologies for startling his poor mare. It took a little maneuvering, but eventually John got his foot in the stirrup and, with Sherlock’s help, he slung himself across the horse’s back and they were off again. 

 

Two hours later, John’s arse and lower back were screaming in protest. He groaned in pain and demanded that they switch places. 

 

“Oh my god, do you ever stop complaining? You’re supposed to be a bloody hero,” Sherlock complained in return.

 

“I’ll stop complaining when you stop making my life difficult,” John promised.

 

“If you hadn’t woken me-”

 

“Are you still angry about that,” Greg asked, exasperated. “How long are you going to harp on that?”

 

Sherlock mimed thinking it over. “Hmm...let’s see. At least as long as it takes to get me back to the palace.”

 

“Eleven days. God, help me. I’m in agony,” John groused, dropping his forehead to rest between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. He pounded his head a couple of times as if he were hitting a wall, trying to beat back an impending headache.

 

“If you’re quite finished,” Sherlock drawled, boredom in his voice.

 

“You know what,” John started up, angry.

 

“No! I don’t know what,” Sherlock yelled, loud enough to scare birds from the trees.

 

“Shh! Keep your voice down,” Greg implored.

 

“No! I have had enough! Everyone is complaining, I’m tired, I’m sore, and I just want peace and quiet!”

 

“You can start by shutting your gob,” John harshly whispered.  _ Now would be the **just** perfect time for a gang of baddies to show up. _

 

“I will not! I’ll yell as loud as I want to!”

 

“Fine by us,” an unfamiliar voice called from behind a tree. 

 

Quick as a whip, all three adventurers went shock still, looking around them to find that they had been surrounded by a gang of thieves. There were eight men all armed with swords and all pointing them directly at the adventurers. 

 

_ I knew the easy pace couldn’t last _ , John whined internally. He cuffed Sherlock on the back of the head and said, “look where your big mouth got us!”

 

Sherlock’s head whipped around to look at him. He sneered, rubbing his head and asked, challengingly, “well, what are you going to do about it, Sir Hero of this Blood Story?”

  
A plan not even fully formed yet in his head, John drew his sword and smoothly dropped into a defensive stance on the ground. “Be the hero and save the day of course.”


	4. Chapter 4

 

The group of bandits surrounding the adventurers laughed at John’s bravado. The leader, a large man with a beard that flowed from his chin down to the middle of his chest, stepped forward brandishing his own sword. Grinning ear to ear with confidence he took in his opponent and made a humble bow.

 

“If we’re to fight, it’s only polite to introduce ourselves. I am Felix, Gentleman Bandit and this,” he made a sweeping gesture to the men surrounding them, “is my jolly crew. Say hello, boys!”

 

“Hello boys,” the crew called, all waving and smiling in return. Not once did their swords waver in their stances.

 

“Charmed, I’m sure,” Sherlock drawled, boredom leaking into his voice.

 

Ignoring Sherlock’s comment, Felix asked, “and who might you be?”

 

Not offering the same courtesy of a bow, John replied, “Sir John Watson, Unamused Victim of Circumstance. Pleased to meet you.”

 

That earned a hearty chuckle from the man. John took him in, trying to find any weak points to use to his advantage. The man was large. Like, really large. Almost two meters tall, broad shouldered and looked to be packing a healthy amount of muscle under his clothes. But the way he held his sword suggested he didn’t just use brute strength; easy grip on the sword and solid but loose stance in preparation for movement. He was well versed in the sword and held himself perfectly for dueling. Clearly not his first rodeo.

 

“The pleasure’s all mine, Sir John. Now, I have to ask you about your comment earlier. About you being the hero and saving the day. How did you plan on doing that, hmm? There’s eight of me and three of you.” He gestured between Greg and Sherlock and added, “your squire’s armed, for all the good it’ll do him. But your other companion, who I can only assume is a posh brat you’re babysitting, doesn’t seem to be armed. So really, it’s nine against two. Not very good odds, my friend.”

 

“Are you always so this long winded whilst robbing people,” Sherlock said, still atop John’s horse.

 

“You have to admit, it’s an aesthetic,” Felix replied with an easy smile.

 

“An annoying one,” John agreed.

 

“We can dispense with the pleasantries and just kill you now if you prefer?”

 

“Greg,” John addressed his squire. “You’re to get Sherlock out of here, understood?”

 

“Sir,” Greg protested.

 

“Just do as I ask, just once, without contradicting me!”

 

“John, don’t be stupid,” Sherlock groaned. With a heavy, put upon sigh, Sherlock gracefully dropped down onto the ground and stepped forward, arms spread in peace. “Tell you what. You agree to let us all live, and you can take me as hostage. Ransom me back to my brother.”

 

Felix’s eyebrow twitched in amusement. “And why would we agree to that?”

 

“If money’s your motivation well then my brother has ample motivation for you.”

 

“So quick to be kidnapped,” Felix asked.

 

“I’m already kidnapped,” Sherlock reasoned. “Makes little difference to me as to who my captors are.”

 

“Oi,” John defended, dropping his stance briefly to grouse at Sherlock. “We’ve been very nice to you, all things considered!”

 

“All things con-” Sherlock spat. “You kissed me! Without my permission!”

 

“To break your bloody spell and rescue from yourself!”

 

“To bring me back home, a place I do not desire to be!”

 

“And you punched me! Twice! I think we’re even!”

 

The two men stepped forward until they were nose to nose, Sherlock looming over John and John’s neck craned upward to glower at his charge. John gripped his sword tightly, reasoning with himself that if he killed Sherlock there would be no reward coming.

 

“You deserve a lot more than that for forcing yourself upon me!”

 

“Oh for the love of God,” John shouted, leaning back to roll his eyes in consternation.

 

“Guys,” Greg muttered, worry in his voice.

 

Wizard and knight both turned their murderous gazes on him and shouted in tandem, “shut up!” Immediately, their faces pressed close together to continue arguing in their little bubble.

 

“You want to take your anger out on me, go ahead,” John shouted. He gestured to Felix, “save him the trouble! Actually,” he turned his head to address Felix, “if you’d be so kind, please, do kill me! Take me out of my own misery!”

 

“Oh, I’m not letting you get off that easy John Watson,” Sherlock growled. “If I have to be awake and bear the presence of my brother eventually then you have to, too!”

 

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Felix step forward, confusion written clearly on his face. Sherlock was either the biggest idiot he had ever met or a genius. If Felix got just a touch closer then John would have some room to maneuver and get them out of this mess. He continued to shout abuse at Sherlock, giving as good as he got until Felix stepped up next to them.

 

“Boys, boys,” Felix chuckled soothingly, “no need to fight amongst yourselves. Don’t deprive us of the-”

 

Without warning, John cold clocked him with a nasty right-hook and sent the man sprawling. In a second, Felix went down like a rock, dropping his sword. Quick as lightning, he snatched up Felix’s sword and handed it off to Sherlock to protect himself and placed a foot on their would-be captor’s chest, aiming his sword at his neck.

 

“You were saying,” John said with a victorious grin. Not that he was overly confident they’d still make it out alive. Their little stunt made the ring of bandits close in closer, even if they had yet to attack for fear of their leader’s life. But they didn’t need to know that.

 

“Fake it till you make it” wasn’t just a saying for John. It was a lifestyle choice.

 

“Well done.” Felix gave him a calculating look and asked, “did you plan that?”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

 

All eleven men stood still, measuring each other and waiting to see who would pull the first move. The forest moved around them; birds called and squirrels scampered and leaves rustled in the breeze. No one dared move. Eventually, Felix raised his hands in surrender and said, “I know when to forfeit a game.” Then he extended one hand as if they were greeting each other for the first time all over again. “Good game, then? Truce?”

 

John, not one to trust bandits but seeing no other option, asked, “if you are truly calling it a truce.”

 

“On my mother’s life,” Felix swore.

 

A hard, stern look passed between them before John pulled his sword back and reached forward with his own hand. The two men shook briefly and then he helped the man rise to his feet. Felix, quick to chuckle as he rubbed his sore jaw said, “that’s one mean fist you got there.”

 

“Plenty of practice,” John told him truthfully. He had been in more than one fight in the pub in his life. More so since Mary.

 

Felix gestured to his sword in Sherlock’s grip and said, “mind if I get that back, please?”

 

John immediately raised his sword and said, “you can have it back when we’re safely on our way, friend.”

 

“Now, is that any way to behave,” Felix said with mock-hurt. “Just when I was going to invite you to join us for dinner tonight, too! So rude!”

 

“Says the man about to rob us,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

 

“Hey,” John snappily whispered at him. “I got this.” Then he turned back to Felix and said, “says the man about to rob us.” He heard Sherlock disgusted groan and practically felt the man roll his eyes.

 

“I wouldn’t be so quick to brush me off, Sir John. Seeing what you can do, I have a business proposition for you. All I ask is that you share one meal with us and hear me out.”

 

John didn’t want to say yes. He wanted to mount his horse and get them out of there as fast as possible. But mounting at this rate would leave him, and Sherlock, exposed to attack. Greg could easily get out if he distracted the bandits but then they would be down one ally and Sherlock, the whole point of their bloody quest, would still be in danger. Much as he hated to be in the company of untrustworthy men, he had to concede to their demands for the time being.

 

“Have them put away their swords first,” John countered.

 

“Done.” Felix snapped his fingers and said, “play time’s over, boys.” The sound of swords sliding into wood and leather scabbards signalled their compliance and, after taking a look around to see that no one had a weapon on them, John nodded once and sheathed his own sword. Greg followed suit, leaving Sherlock the only one armed. He held his hand out for Sherlock to give it to him and he hesitated. John mouthed _trust me_ and silently implored him to hand it over. Cautious, eyes darting around the circle of men, Sherlock slowly handed it over to John who handed it to Felix. The final sword put away, they all relaxed.

 

“Well, I for one am ready for a sit down, aren’t you? How about an ale?” At John’s silence, Felix continued. “Well, maybe you’ll change your minds.” He snapped his fingers at two unnamed men who came forward to take their horses reins. Greg joined them on the ground and Felix lead all of them deeper into the woods.

 

Sherlock sidled up close to John and whispered angrily in his ear, “how is this saving the bloody day?”

 

John grit his teeth to keep from shouting. “In case you hadn’t noticed,” John whispered back, “we are grossly outnumbered. What would you like me to do? Pull a whole garrison out of my arse?”

 

Sherlock snorted, “now there’s a trick.”

 

“And unless you got any _tricks_ up your sleeve, keep your trap shut. We still have negotiating room here. We have options.”

 

Greg leaned over and whispered, “he’s seen worse, honestly. Don’t be too upset. He’s a little out of practice, of course, but have faith.”

 

John slung his arm around his squire’s shoulders and said, “Greg, you’re a saint among men.” Then he told Sherlock, “just keep your voice down and your eyes and ears open. I got this.”

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

About an hour later, close to midday, the troupe came to a very established camp in the middle of the forest. Stolen covered carriages, five of them in total, circled around a large campfire that had more men bustling around it. There were rope bridges strung up in the trees with men keeping watch, armed with bows, and men on the ground protecting the perimeter of the camp. John was impressed with the professionalism of their operation.

 

They were led to the fire and watched as their horses were led away to be tied up with the crew’s horses. John tried to formulate a plan on getting their horses back but his mind yelled at him for jumping ahead. _Get yourselves free first, one step at a time!_

 

At Felix’s insistence, the three adventurers sat on the logs that served as benches around the fire. Felix stood in front of them and asked, “anyone rethinking an ale? I’m parched myself and we just procured a lovely barrel from a monastery caravan just three days ago. Really hits the spot!”

 

The three shared a look and nodded in acceptance. In a matter of minutes, they and Felix all had mugs in their hands. They clunked their heavy pewter mugs together and John watched as Felix took a great gulp of his mug. Not entirely at ease, John did the same.

 

Felix drained his mug in one go and pulled back for air with a satisfied “ahh”. He grinned a sudsy grin at him and said, “now that I’ve whetted my thirst, walk with me. We’ve much to discuss.” John looked back at Sherlock who looked somewhere between petrified and furious, definitely not wanting to leave him.

 

“If it makes you feel better, Greg is it,” Felix asked and Greg nodded. “Greg can stay and watch over your guest. Won’t be long I assure you.”

 

John, still full of unease, asked Sherlock, “are you going to be okay?”

 

“Do I have a choice otherwise?”

 

“Excellent point,” Felix said before throwing an arm around John’s shoulder. “Be back soon, gentlemen.” He motioned for two of his men to come forth. “Jeremy, Giles, keep our guests company.”

 

Felix dragged John off to give him his offer.

 

“So, as you’ve noticed,” Felix said casually, “we’re bandits.”

 

“Hard to miss, yeah.”

 

“And as such, we’re always looking to add to our collection.” As they walked he pointed out various stocks. “We got all manner of tools, weapons, bolts of cloth, as much ale and wine as you please. Swag, galore, let me tell you,” he preened.

 

“How nice for you,” John replied dryly.

 

“Part of our success is keeping an eye out for new talent and new opportunities. That’s where you come in.” He stuck a thumb back towards the fire and said, “your cash cow back there had an excellent point. If he’s someone’s rich brother, he’d set us up nice and pretty. And as a reward for bringing into our laps such a gem of an opportunity, you and your squire can join our ranks.”

 

John stopped short and Felix stopped beside him. Incredulity was plain on John’s face. “You do know I’m in the hero business, right? I made my bread and butter off kicking sots like you in the jewels and bringing you back for bounty.”

 

“Yes, and no hard feelings, there.” Felix leaned in to whisper conspiratorially, “between you and me, if I had a chance to turn some of this lot in for the bounty without things going to shit here, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Like I said, always on the lookout for new opportunities, eh?” He elbowed John in the side good-naturedly.

 

“And what if I refuse? To ransom Sherlock off and join your crew, I mean?”

 

Felix folded his arms across his chest and gave John an amused smirk. “Listen, John. Can I call you John? No need for formalities here, right? Look around you. We don’t have to be this nice. We could just kill you and take your stuff and it’d be no skin off our backs.”

 

At John’s silence he said, “I know who you are. As soon as you said your name I knew what an asset we had in you. Famous dragon slayer, lover of quests, and a heart of gold. The legends are very prolific.”

 

John chuckled grimly. “Don’t believe everything you read, mate.”

 

“See, that’s what I thought, too,” Felix said excitedly. “But then look how easy you brought me to a truce! If you joined us we could use that clever skill of yours to keep the boys safe. Talking hurts a lot less than a sword, ain’t that right?”

 

“I suppose.”

 

“So you’ll do it? I mean, you can’t really be getting fulfilled by being a babysitter for that brat back there. He should have some respect! Any other ponce would be thrilled to be rescued by the great Sir John!”

 

“Don’t call him that,” John said, suddenly defensive.

 

Felix did a double-take between the direction they had come and John. “Oh, don’t tell me you’ve grown attached to the ponce? He doesn’t even value what he has in front of him!”

 

“Be that as it may,” John growled, hand curling around the hilt of his sword. “Don’t call him that.” Sherlock may be a brat but he was John’s redemption mission and therefore important. Not to mention the fact that he was growing strangely fond of their bickering and would be sad to see it end.

 

No, John wouldn’t hear a word against him, no matter Sherlock’s prior behavior.

 

“He’s an ungrateful brat,” Felix hissed between his teeth.

 

Quick as a cat, John lurched forward and drew Felix’s sword with one hand and his own with his other. He had them crossed over Felix’s throat in a second, the thrill of the fight humming through his veins. He was back to his old hero self and he felt untouchable.

 

Felix stood stiff, hands up in surrender, silent.

 

“Thank you for the offer, but I think we’ll pass.”

 

“You’ll not get out of here alive,” Felix warned.

 

“I think I’ll take my chances. Now, off we pop. We’ve got some friends and horses to pick up before we head on out.”

 

Slowly, John maneuvered them so they were headed back towards the fire. As they walked, other crewmen drew their weapons and followed alongside them, stalking like wolves as John threatened their leader. Once back at the fire, both Greg and Sherlock shot up from their seats in surprise.

 

“What the hell are you doing,” Sherlock said, shock written on his face.

 

 _Honestly, I have no idea_ , John thought. What came out instead was, “getting us out of here. Come on, get your things, time to go.”

 

Greg was quick to step to John’s side but Sherlock stood where he was, taking stock of their situation. John had to admit his move was hasty and not well planned but he was sure they had a decent shot. As long as they had the leader under their thumb, they could get away. Classic hostage situation.

 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John coaxed.

 

With John’s focus split between Felix and Sherlock, Felix took his chance and ducked under the cross of swords, diving to safety in the ring of bandits that had taken up residence around them.

 

_Shit._

 

“Well, that was fun,” Felix said. “Such a shame you won’t be joining us but, frankly, we definitely have better strategists on hand.” A crew member handed him a sword and the whole camp laughed as John’s stomach plummeted.

 

 _No. No, this can’t be it! Not so close to redemption,_ John’s mind screamed. He searched his brain for an out, any way out.

 

Then Sherlock shouted, “John, Greg, get down!”

 

Not questioning in the slightest, John grabbed Greg’s sleeve and they both ducked to the ground just in time for Sherlock’s hands to become engulfed in purple flame. Twin jets of purple shot over their heads and hit two men square in the chest, lighting them on fire. They screamed in horror, dropping to the ground to snuff out the flames while another jet of flame hit a man on a rope bridge to avoid him shooting off arrows at them. The bridge caught fire and the man fell, shrieking in pain as his leg made a sickening crunch. Another jet of flame shot over to the carriage that held all their alcohol and it erupted in flames to the great dismay of the whole crew.

 

“You, you can do magic,” John shouted in surprise.

 

“You already knew that,” Sherlock shouted back.

 

“You knew!,” Felix shouted at John. “Why didn’t he do that before?”

 

“I’m right here, you know,” Sherlock barked at him, holding his arms menacingly in Felix’s direction. “It’s rude to talk about someone like they’re a piece of furniture, you know.”

 

“Apologies. You have to forgive me for being a little test,” he said calmly before screaming, “ _because you just set my whole fucking camp on fire!”_

 

Sherlock smiled darkly at him, “not all of it.” He made a threatening move towards him and the whole crew took a step back in fear. He gestured up to the remaining rope bridges, assuring the archers that he could hit them before they hit him and they reluctantly lowered their bows. “Thank you for being so cool about this. It’s been a lovely visit but I’m rather homesick, you see. Time for me to go home.”

 

“And I’ll expect you want your horses back.”

 

“And a third one, as well, if you please. I don’t fancy walking all the way back.”

 

Felix frowned, deeply angry at Sherlock’s light tone. “You have to be out of your mind if you think I’m letting you take anything more than what you walked in with.”

 

“You have to be out of your mind if you think you have a choice in the matter,” Sherlock countered.

 

The pair stared for a long minute. Shouts of men in the background, trying to control the fire and the flames themselves were the only sounds to be heard. Finally admitting true defeat, Felix barked to his men, “bring them their horses and the gear they came in with. And the white horse.” He threw his next words at Sherlock, “it was a steal off a royal, anyway. A huge flag that screams “please hang me”, should anyone come snooping over this way.”

 

“We’ll gladly take it off your hands,” Sherlock assured him. He told John and Greg to get up and in no time the three horses appeared. Squire and knight mounted their horses quickly but Sherlock remained surefooted on the ground. “John, grab the reins of our new equine friend. I’ll get acquainted with her once we’re well away from here.”

 

“You got it,” John said, full of awe.

 

John led Sherlock’s new horse out of the camp, Greg beside him, with Sherlock bringing up the rear. His hands still aflame, he walked backwards, eyes darting everywhere to be sure they were being let go peacefully. One man made to knock back an arrow and Sherlock sent a warning shot of fire just over his head and he dropped the bow entirely.

 

No one from the camp followed them and once they were sure they were alone and far out of range, Sherlock let the magic flame fall away from his hands.

 

John finally felt his brain come back to life. Questions flooded his mind but the first thing out of his mouth was, “Sherlock that was amazing!”

 

“You’re welcome,” Sherlock replied with a small smile.

 

“Thank you, mate,” Greg said gratefully. “You saved our arses back there.”

 

“Well,” Sherlock said shyly, “it wouldn’t do for you to fail on your first quest out of retirement would it?”

 

Then, without warning, Sherlock’s knees gave way and he fainted.

 

John’s feet dropped to the ground in a second and he scooped Sherlock’s head into his lap. “Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!”

 

Sherlock groaned and tried to wave him off. “Nnnngh, I already saved you once today, leave me alone,” he whined weakly.

 

“Come on, you can’t lose it here! We’re still too close to their camp,” John pleaded.

 

“I’m well enough to sit a horse if you get me up there. Can’t promise to lead but the horse should follow well enough.”

 

“Right then,” John said, licking his lips nervously, “Greg, help me get him up.”

 

Together, the two worked fast to get Sherlock sitting in the saddle of the new horse. To keep him from falling they secured him with rope, double and triple checking the knots before remounting their own horses. John, unsure of how much longer they would have to put a good distance between them and the bandits, he asked hurriedly, “can you ride?”

 

Sherlock swayed in the saddle and gripped the reins tight, pallor greyer than John liked. “Let’s see, shall we?”

 

“Keep behind me. Greg, bring up the rear,” John ordered. Without further conversation, John set them off on a brutal pace. Sherlock, a marvel for his condition, stayed just behind John as they sped as fast as they dared in the dense forest. It didn’t take long for them to find the path they had been diverted from but that didn’t slow their pace. John rode them down the path until their horses frothed and panted with the exertion, finally forcing them to stop.

 

He slowed them and took the chance to check on his company. Greg looked no worse for wear, if a little frazzled. Sherlock, on the other hand, looked as if a leaf could knock him over.

 

John slid off his horse and said, “the horses need to walk and cool. We’ll walk a bit and then look for a place to set up camp. Not too far from the road, in case we need to run later. And you,” John pointed to Sherlock, “you need to come down. Horse needs to rest a bit.”

 

Sherlock nodded weakly but made no move to extricate himself from his bonds. John helped him, unknotting the rope hastily and tossed it to Greg to stow. He then held his hands out to Sherlock and said softly, “come down, I’ll catch you.”

 

As if it weighed ten stone, Sherlock swung his leg over the side of his horse and pushed himself out of the saddle. John neatly caught him, pulling him close to support him. He set Sherlock down on the low embankment on the side of the path and helped Greg join the reins of their horses so he could lead them. He set Greg to walking, the horses already grown antsy with the small break and overheating, before coming to stand before Sherlock again.

 

“Can you walk at all?”

 

“Maybe?”

 

 _Well, nothing for it I suppose,_ John resigned. He reached down to grab Sherlock’s arm and haul him to his feet briefly before bending at the waist and pressing his shoulder to Sherlock’s middle. One swift movement and Sherlock’s body was draped over his shoulder. The taller man was more awkward to carry than any lass but he was not about to leave him behind.

 

“This is hardly dignified,” Sherlock protested.

 

“You can harp at me later about it,” John promised. “Now hush before your mouth calls down more bandits.” When no retort was forthcoming John knew Sherlock was really drained.

 

Another half hour of walking and John’s body was protesting loudly at its burden. He called for Greg to halt and together they scouted the immediate area for a place to settle for the night. A quick search of the area by Greg came up with a small creek and John felt relief flood through him. They may have to stay out longer than expected but at least their water skins wouldn’t run dry.

 

It was early evening, the light just beginning to grow long when they finished setting up camp. Bedrolls laid out, they helped Sherlock into the tent so he could have a real rest. As soon as he was settled, Sherlock drifted off to sleep and Greg and John were left alone with to their own devices, eager to question Sherlock about why he rescued men he had no desire to be with.

 

But, alas, their questions would have to wait until Sherlock regained consciousness.

  
Resigned to waiting, John silently gestured for Greg to follow him out of the tent. Even without Sherlock, they had much to talk about.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we have a little bit of serious times these last couple chapters but I promise we'll get back to cracky and maybe, just maybe, some steamy bits. Thanks for patiently waiting for the next chapter! You all rock!

 

“I have so many questions,” John said softly as he dropped heavily onto the ground in front of the tent. He laid back, not caring that the ground was moist or that there were twigs and stones digging into his body. He needed to be horizontal more than anything else no matter the terrain.

 

Greg stood next to him, groaning with exhaustion. “You and me both. That fire was incredible!”

 

“But did you see how it drained him? How he just crumpled like wet paper afterwards? Do you think that using his magic hurts him?”

 

Greg shrugged. “We’ll have to wait until he comes round again. Not much else we can do but make him comfortable and wait.”

 

John nodded. “Too true. What do we do in the meantime? Can’t light a fire. Those bandits are probably out there looking for us as we speak.”

 

“Well, I don’t know about you but I plan on filling the water skins and then laying down for an early night, myself.” He walked off towards their packs so as to retrieve their empty water skins.

 

John felt uncharacteristically restless. His brain was wired, flooding with questions about Sherlock and his magic, worrying that every twitch and rustle in the woods was an enemy, wanting to get up and help Greg just so his hands would be busy. But his whole body screamed with exhaustion from their harrowing capture and escape. His body yearned to crawl inside the tent and curl up next to Sherlock, the prospect of cuddling the man becoming less and less distasteful by the second. He would be able to feel every breath of Sherlock’s, the gentle rise and fall of his chest to assure John that he was still alive. He would be there when Sherlock woke first thing, to see for himself that the wizard hadn’t slipped back into eternal sleep.

 

Not that kissing him back to life would be a hardship.

 

John’s eyes snapped open, not recalling when he had first closed them. Why was he wanting to kiss Sherlock again? Sherlock had made it clear that advances on his person were unwelcome. Was it just gratitude for having saved them all? That had to be it. John didn’t exactly execute his plan with the bandits well. The situation spiralled way out of hand and Sherlock managed to save him and Greg, even despite Sherlock’s insistence that he didn’t care what happened to his rescuers. He just wanted to show his appreciation.

 

 _Right. Enough of that_ , he decided.

 

Resolute, he forced himself to stand up and go help Greg with the water before scouting out a good place to set up a watch. With the action they had with the bandits, it was ludicrous not to have someone stand watch over night.

 

Finding Greg at the water’s edge, filling their skins, John crouched beside him and grabbed an empty one. He dipped it into the river and told Greg of his decision to have a watch. They agreed it was prudent, capping their full skins and reaching for the last two empties.  “I’ll take first watch,” John insisted.

 

“Find by me,” Greg said, voice weary. “I’m so knackered, I could fall asleep here.”

 

John grinned. “Please don’t. I don’t have the energy for a water rescue right now. Can’t have you drowning on me.”

 

“I do live to make your life easier,” Greg quipped dryly, smile on his face.

 

They rose with groans and popping joints and arms full of water. It didn’t take long for them to stow their water and do a sweep of the perimeter of their camp for any and all possible attacking points. All things considered, they were well placed. River behind their tent. Not far off in front of them but far enough back you couldn’t see them from was the road. Dense foliage on either side to shield them from those coming from either side. It seemed to be a popular spot to make camp but evidence showed that no one had been there in awhile, no recent human footprints or fire residue.

 

If they were lucky, the night would be uneventful.

 

John found himself a perch on a large boulder nearby and Greg waved to him in goodnight before crawling inside their tent for the next few hours. John was left with his thoughts and the sounds of the nighttime forest for company. He didn’t want to tread back into dangerous territory, thinking about Sherlock, so he played a game with himself. As the nightly chorus of forest animals began to play, John picked out each one and named them. _Owl calling out after prey. Two foxes who have found their mate. A flock of bats on the hunt. Deer stalking gently through the underbrush._

 

The game eventually became tiresome and repetitive. His eyes drooped and his head jerked up sharply in an effort to stay awake. Rather than try to play his guessing game he began to daydream. His mind began to wander. He thought of the cadence of his horse’s steps while they rode that day, the feel of his chest against Sherlock’s chest. If he closed his eyes he could feel the sway of their bodies atop the beast and almost smell the dusty sweat of travel that collected at the back of Sherlock’s neck. Their shared ride had ended with an argument and a capture that irked John to no end. He replayed the encounter with Felix over and over, trying to see where he could have done better. But every scenario still ended with Sherlock taking matters into his own enflamed hands.

 

Realization dawned on him, the reason he was revisiting the scene over and over again.

 

John had never been saved before.

 

He had always been the rescuer, the one to arrive in the nick of time, the hero. But it was undeniable in the dark and still of night; John had been in need of help, in need of rescue, and Sherlock delivered. The first to ever extend a hand and pull John out of peril. He put himself in harm’s way to save John and couldn’t fathom why.

 

_Why why why why why why why?_

 

_He implied he’d run off at the first chance he got and he hadn’t. He said he would let bandits and thieves be a cover for him to take off and leave us to fate but he didn’t. He argues and rails against being rescued but then saves his captors from death even though it would benefit him. And inconvenience his brother with a ransom which, given his expressed “brotherly affection”, is something he’d draw amusement from. He could have let us die and yet he put himself in the line of fire._

 

John had never been more confused.

 

At last, his watch ended and it was time for him to get some blessed sleep. He slid off his boulder, stretching briefly and rubbing his numb bottom, and went to wake Greg. A gentle shake of the shoulder and whisper of “your turn” and Greg was grumbling awake, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. John sat back on his heels so Greg could crawl out of the tent and after a quick exchange of words, observations then goodnights, John let himself fall into the space his squire had occupied.

 

The bedroll was warm from Greg’s body and John snuffled happily into the cushioning. The chill of the evening slowly dissipated and his body relaxed, preparing for sleep. His eyes peeked open to where Sherlock was sound asleep. The man had his back to John but splayed limply as if he had melted, unconsciously taking advantage of the extra space with only two in the tent at a time.

 

Suddenly the warmth of Greg’s bedroll couldn’t compete with the warmth of Sherlock’s body. John’s fingers twitched with the desire to scoot his padding closer and collect Sherlock in his arms as he had that morning. To feel the soft puffs of sleep sour breath, to feel rather than hear dreaming snuffling, to have Sherlock clutch him again.

 

But he wouldn’t force himself on Sherlock again. Even if it was to break a spell, his kiss was unwanted and John doubted Sherlock would ever want him intimately in return. He wouldn’t ever force himself on Sherlock again. Sherlock didn’t want him anyway, even if he had wrapped himself around John that morning and saved him from certain death. That just proved that a sleeping Sherlock sought the warmth of another body and that awake Sherlock preferred one band of kidnappers over another. Neither occurrence was promising of anything other than platonic.

 

With a sigh and a wave of sadness, John pushed off his desire and wrapped his arms around himself and forced himself to roll away from Sherlock. He would go to sleep and wake up the next day and, maybe, they would get Sherlock to tell them a little about his magic.

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

_John found himself walking to the river’s edge, disrobing as he went and desperate for a bath. He knew the water would be cold but refreshing and he welcomed the sensation. His skin was hot, so hot, he needed to cool himself nor surely he would catch fire. His feet squished the mud beneath, oozing between his toes and sending little thrills of cold chills up his spine as the breeze danced across his naked skin. The first touch of the cool, glassy water pulling a gasp from his lips._

 

_He waded into the river, feeling the water support him and the current move around him. He walked and walked, knowing without realizing that he was seeking someone in the water. He turned his head this way and that, searching for someone. A few yards down the river a shock of pale skin and dark curls grabbed his attention._

 

_Sherlock. Of course, of course he had been looking for Sherlock._

 

_Despite the temperature of the water John felt his own temperature rise. His mouth stretched into a wry grin. He stood there, watching for a moment as Sherlock bathed himself with his back to John. Sunlight glinted off the droplets of water that perched on his creamy skin and John’s mouth went dry. He licked his lips, needing to taste the water on Sherlock’s skin. As if he were a bee seeking nectar from a flower._

 

_His feet carried him towards Sherlock, the water quietly shushing and swishing with his movements. He knew Sherlock was aware of his presence, how could he not. Still, he kept his face turned away, letting John gaze only upon the canvas of skin of his back. John stopped, a hand's breadth of space between them, and he could swear for a moment that the air crackled like lightning between them._

 

_Unable to contain himself any longer, John raised a wet hand to Sherlock’s shoulder, the drops from his fingers mingling with the ones already present on the man’s shoulder. “Sherlock,” he whispered, afraid to break the intensity but needing to see him all the same._

 

_His fingertips barely brushed Sherlock’s skin when his voice answered back, more of a sigh than a word. “John…”_

 

_Slowly, deliberately, Sherlock moved. First, his chin lifted, tilting his head so that John could see him in profile. Then his shoulder shifted, torso twisting to bring his front into John’s sight. Lastly, his arms, ones that had been curled protectively around himself, unfolded to draw John impossibly closer. In a second, their bodies were flush together and the water around them practically boiled with passion._

 

_“John,” his whispered again, lips against John’s earlobe. The word, said like a prayer, sent shivers along his spine and John found his hands caressing Sherlock’s bare hips._

 

_“Sherlock,” he murmured back._

 

_Without words of mutual agreement, they bent their heads and slot their lips against each other. This kiss was worlds different than their first. Sherlock didn’t hit him or push him away. In fact, Sherlock’s arms tightened around him, hands clutching at his bare skin as his lips slid over John’s. He opened underneath Sherlock’s momentum, relishing the control he took as he let Sherlock’s tongue dip inside his mouth. The groan that was torn from his mouth was swallowed by Sherlock and John sent his hands roaming for better holds. One splayed over the marblesque skin of his back and the other firmly grasping Sherlock’s arse, he rutted their pelvises together and they both moaned in slick delight._

 

_“John,” Sherlock sighed once more, tilting his head back in ecstasy._

 

_“Sherlock,” John replied, desperate._

 

_“John…_

_John_

 

_John_

 

John was pulled from sleep by a voice calling to him, dragging him from the river into the waking world. His eyes still closed but groggily awake he grumbled wordlessly at the unfairness of being torn from such a lovely dream. Rather than acknowledge the voice, he clutched his warm bedding closer and snuggled deeper into his pillow. His very warm pillow that smelled an awful lot like a man. A pillow that moved beneath him.

 

His eyes snapped open, his body jerking into awareness. He took stock of where he was: inside their tent, arms currently wrapped around Sherlock, chests pressed together, one hand on Sherlock’s arse, the other cupped around the back of his neck. A small shift revealed an additional dose of embarrassment; his erection pulsed between them, trapped between their bodies.

 

Another shift and a bitten off gasp from Sherlock confirmed he was not the only one affected by their positions.

 

He forced himself to look at Sherlock’s eyes and not their throbbing erections, forced himself to stay still exactly where he was in case he was still dreaming. Sherlock’s hands were gently laid against his shoulder and chest, braced but not pushing, and his eyes were wide with uncertainty.

 

They laid there, practically humming with tension and unmoving.

 

One of them had to be the first to move John reasoned. So, reluctantly, he uncurled his fingers and rolled himself onto his back, immediately mourning the loss of contact. He stared up at the tent and exhaled deeply, trying to bring his arousal under control. After a long stretch of silence and the urgency of his erection ebbed a little, John cleared his throat.

 

“Sorry about that,” John apologized. “I don’t know what came over me.”

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock said gently but quickly, obviously trying to sound reassuring.

 

“Still, I shouldn’t-”

 

“You were asleep. You didn’t do it on purpose.” An awkward pause seeped between them and then Sherlock was moving, pushing himself up from his side to his knees. “I think I’ll just…”

 

“Right,” John replied, embarrassed by his want. He closed his eyes and concentrated on breathing, willing away his arousal as the sounds of Sherlock shifting and leaving the tent came and went. Alone in the tent, the sensations of the past few minutes came flooding back and his erection resurfaced tenfold.

 

He could smell Sherlock everywhere. If he put his hand out next to him, John could feel the warmth left behind by Sherlock’s body. If he licked his lips he could practically taste the river and Sherlock on his skin. In his mind he could feel those hands grabbing him and Sherlock’s voice repeating his name over and over again.

 

He was bombarded and it was brutally unfair.

 

John longed for a bed and more privacy than the thin barrier of the tent. If it had been any other adventure, he would have indulged in a wank. He wasn’t a shy man and had heard the whimpers and sighs of men in camps before while warring and adventuring. Had even joined in on more than one occasion when tension was high and in need of release. He knew how to be quiet and efficient and, given how worked up he was, it would take no time at all.  

 

But the object of his desire had never been just a few steps away before. If he let himself get carried away, if he let himself touch and stroke and climax, Sherlock would know. Sherlock would know and probably judge. And, more than ever, John wanted Sherlock to be at ease with him. If he abstained, he could blame his dreaming thoughts on someone, anyone, other than Sherlock.

 

And maybe, if asked about it, Sherlock would believe him.

 

It took a full five minutes for John’s libido to fade and he could get up without embarrassing himself further. He exited the tent and found Greg polishing their swords. Still avoiding a fire in case they were being pursued, John reached into their pack for a water skin. He groaned in relief as the cool water filled his mouth. He swallowed down then refilled his mouth to swish out the staleness of sleep before spitting and taking another swallow.

 

“Do we have any soap,” John asked.

 

“Planning on a bath,” Greg asked, never taking his eyes off the sword in his hands.

 

“And planning on washing out some of our gear. It’s getting pretty rank,” John said, stowing the water.

 

“If you keep doing my dirty work I’ll soon have nothing left to do,” Greg joked, throwing an amused look his way briefly, before turning his gaze back to the sword. He pointed to the bag that held their soap and kept on polishing.

 

“Well, not much else to do other than hunt or nap, while we’re here. Sherlock left the tent before I could ask how he was after his fainting spell yesterday.”

 

“I saw.” Greg jerked his thumb to a game trail just off in the distance and added, “he stalked off that way. Not sure where he was going but I figured I’d let him be. He looked in a right state.”

 

Guilt colored John’s neck and he hid it by going through their pack in search of a bar of soap. Finding it, he grabbed it along with the bag full of their laundry, a length of rope for a clothesline, and set off towards the river. He pushed thoughts of Sherlock from his mind and focused only on the task at hand: washing clothes. It took a little walking but John soon found a rock that would be suitable for washing. He tossed his heavier doublet over a branch, well out of the way of the water and took off his boots to stand in the water barefoot. He didn’t bother rolling up his trousers, they would be wet with washing soon enough, but he did push his sleeves back so he could scrub easier.

 

He worked mechanically, scrubbing the soap over shirts and trousers and wringing them out in the current of the water. After each was suitably clean, he hung them on his makeshift clothesline and soon he was done except for the clothes he still wore. He took those off and scrubbed those clean, too, shivering slightly in the cool breeze. With their clothes drying, he decided that then was as good a time as ever for a bath and took their soap in hand to wade further into the river.

 

The current rolled gently by, pushing at him gently as he walked in up to his hips. He hissed through his teeth at the chill but pushed through it, knowing that there wouldn’t be many opportunities to get clean on their way to Posh-ville. He quickly roamed the sudsy bar over his body and over his scalp to wash his hair before tossing it back onto the bank. Using his fingernails he scrubbed the soap into his skin and hair, loosening the oils and road dust from it before running his hands over his face to scrub it clean. He moved his hands down over the rest of his body, lathering and cleaning as he went. Once he felt reasonably scrubbed, he held his breath and ducked under the water.

 

The shock of cold constricted his lungs but he worked fast to wash away the soap. He burst through the surface of the water with a gasp, shaking his head to free his hair and ears of invading water. His hands came to comb through his hair, pushing the unruly length back off his eyes only to find he was no longer alone.

 

Sherlock stood at the water’s edge, barefoot and doublet undone, staring wordlessly at him.

 

John felt the ridiculous urge to cover himself. He felt exposed, naked and wet as he was, but he stubbornly stood his ground. He vowed to push his awakening out of his mind and continue as if nothing had happened.

 

“Oh, hi,” John greeted, waving dumbly.

 

“Hello,” Sherlock said, voice clipped.

 

“Also looking for a bath?”

 

“Obviously.”

 

They stared at each other, the river the only thing moving as if nothing were amiss. Finally John swept his arm over the expanse of open space and said, “well, plenty of room. Feel free to join me. I’m almost finished, anyway.” He pointed to the soap on the ground and said, “if you leave your clothes I’ll wash them before heading back to camp. I know you only have the one suit.”

 

Sherlock blinked at him. He looked down onto the bank where the soap laid and the clothesline full of laundry then, finally, down at his own clothes. He smirked at John and said, “hero, warrior, and launderer? Total package, then?”

 

John chuckled and splashed water at him, “git.”

 

Sherlock lifted a hand to protect his face from the spray, flinching in surprise. He barked out a surprised laugh and John wanted to hear it again. Without thinking, he sent another splash his way and was rewarded with an indignant squawk of laughter that made John inwardly preen.

 

Stepping well back from the water’s edge Sherlock said, “if you’re quite done with your childish antics! Give me a second while I,” Sherlock gestured to his clothes, implying he intended to undress. John watched, hoping he didn’t look too much like he was staring. First off was Sherlock’s doublet, which joined John’s on the branch. Next his shirt and boots but his fingers hesitated on the ties of his trousers. Sherlock eyed him meekly and asked, “would you...uhm...mind?”

 

“Mind what?”

 

Sherlock made a circling motion with his finger and asked, “turning around?”

 

John couldn’t help but grin, shaking his head in amusement. “Now you’re modest?”

 

Sherlock flopped his arms, exasperated, and said, “I’ve told you how I hate to repeat myself, John. Please?”

 

John held up his hands in gentle surrender and said, “alright, alright.” He turned around and closed his eyes, “no need to get your knickers in a twist.”

 

A couple seconds later and Sherlock was splashing into the water. John stayed where he was, waiting for Sherlock to tell him when it was safe for him to turn. He had to admit, he was curious to see what Sherlock’s everything looked like. Especially after that dream earlier that morning. His subconscious hatefully neglected to supply him with an idea of what Sherlock’s lower regions might look like. He had seen plenty in his time, aroused and otherwise, it shouldn’t have been hard to imagine. Would he be thin and straight? Short and girthy? Curved to the side or inward towards his navel? Some combination of all the above?

 

 _Stop! Stop that right now, Watson,_ his mind scolded.

 

“You can turn around now,” Sherlock told him plainly.

 

John did exactly that to find Sherlock had waded just a little off to the side of him, giving him plenty of space and not impeding either of their retreats. _Strategic of him,_ John supplied unhelpfully.

 

He watched as Sherlock scrubbed the bar over his body in a very perfunctory manner. But when it came to his hair, he took a different approach. He dipped under the water briefly to wet his hair before he lathered a liberal amount of suds in his hands. Swapping hands so as not to lose the soap, he brought each sudsy hand to his hair and deposited the foam on the top of his head. He did this once more before tossing the soap back to the bank and sinking his fingers into his drenched curls. John watched as, with closed eyes, Sherlock washed his hair. He tracked the trails of soap that flowed down his neck and dripped onto his chest.

 

_God, how much soap did he use?_

 

“I’m glad to see you’ve left some soap for me.”

 

Greg’s voice startled them both and John knew he had been caught staring. He bit his lip, willing the blush in his neck and ears to leave. Before he could embarrass himself further, he waded to the bank and climbed out.

“Left you some laundry to do, too. Sherlock’s needs washing,” he said, snatching up a half damp shirt and trousers. He bent to grab his boots without looking back at either man. “I’ll see about catching dinner,” he said by way of parting, before dashing off back to camp.

 

As he made his escape he faintly heard Greg call back, “rabbit would be lovely, thanks!”

 

He needed to get a grip. Wanting Sherlock was unprofessional. It was stupid. It was unwanted, mostly, by either party and completely ill advised.

 

And yet. And yet he couldn’t quite shake Sherlock from his thoughts.

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

John spent the afternoon traipsing through the forest hunting for their dinner. If they hadn’t been found out by the bandits by this point, it was unlikely they would be on the lookout for them that night either. Probably too busy repairing the damage Sherlock had done to their camp to bother chasing after them just yet.

 

To Greg’s delight, his hunt yielded two rabbits and he managed to find a growth of edible mushrooms. Their meal that evening would be hearty and satisfying and John found himself looking forward to getting back to camp. He wondered how Greg and Sherlock were getting on, if they were being friendly or if Sherlock continued his pattern of being standoffish.

 

He had never been so introspective before Sherlock.

 

Usually his thoughts revolved around strategizing his current quest, dreaming up the next one, and daydreaming of sharing a bed with a gorgeous body. But every time he let himself daydream about a gorgeous body, it was Sherlock’s that his mind supplied. And whenever he thought of Sherlock he found his chest tight, none of the light fleeting feeling he normally got when he imagined sharing  bed with person. Something was different and it was driving John mad that he couldn’t figure out why.

 

He strode into camp and tossed the rabbits to his squire. “Ask and ye shall receive,” John said gayly.

 

“Oh, lovely! Just what I ordered,” Greg grinned in response.

The man looked good after his dip in the river, more refreshed. Clean and relaxed, enjoying a bit of a laze in a patch of sunlight that filtered through the trees.

 

“Even better,” John said, unslinging the small pouch he had brought with him and gestured for Greg to open it. “There’s mushrooms, too.”

 

“Well that’s a lucky find.” Greg opened the pouch and took a sniff of the mushrooms. “These are safe to eat, yeah?”

 

“Yup. That’s bootlace. Cooked well, they’re perfectly safe. Do we have any firewood?”

 

Greg took a look around and said, “well, we are in the middle of the forest, so I’m not sure. What do you think?”

 

“Har, har,” John drawled sarcastically. “I meant here at camp.”

 

“Nah, but if you want to get a head start on cleaning these I can go find some. Could use a bit of a jaunt, myself.”

 

John nodded and helped the man up. After a quick scan of the camp he saw a distinct lack of a certain prince. “Where’s Sherlock?” Greg pointed at the tent. John’s brow knit in concern. “Has he been in there all afternoon?”

 

Greg nodded. “Most of it. We came back from the river together, had a bite of bread and then he said he was tired and crawled back in. Not sure if he’s still out of sorts from yesterday or what but I thought it best to just let him be.”

 

“Right. Well, go get the firewood, I’ll check on him.”

 

“And I suppose you’ll leave the cleaning and cooking of dinner to me, then?”

 

John tossed an amused smirk at Greg and said, “what do I pay you for if not to make my dinner and cater to my every whim?”

 

“You haven’t paid me for this venture yet,” Greg reminded him. “Best watch yourself, I could leave any day now.”

 

John gasped in mock horror. “You wouldn’t dare!”

 

“Just see if I won’t,” Greg said over his shoulder as he walked off in search of firewood.

 

Once Greg was out of earshot, John crept over to the tent and peeked inside. He saw him laying there as he had two nights prior: on his back, hands poised beneath his chin, lips mumbling soundlessly. With no Greg to interrupt and more patience than the first time, John carefully crawled inside the tent and knelt next to Sherlock to watch what he was doing. After a few minutes of observation, it was clear Sherlock was not performing incantations. But it didn’t seem like he was exactly talking to himself either. He watched him until he heard the sounds of Greg’s return with firewood. In the interest in getting dinner started sooner rather than later, he decided to let Sherlock be and quietly left the tent to help.

 

They got the fire going, skinned a rabbit a piece, and in no time, the rabbits were roasting over the fire and a pan with mushrooms were sizzling away with a pat of coveted, preciously saved butter. The two men watched the food, taking turns telling each other of their afternoon. John filled Greg in on the small sights and observations of the forest and Greg went through his chore checklist. Horses were walked and fed, laundry folded and stored, inventory condensed, armor and swords polished.

 

“You’ve been a busy bee,” John said, impressed with Greg’s productivity. “How long had you been lazing in the sun when I got back?”

 

“Oh, ten minutes or so. It was a nice break.”

 

“I’ll bet.”

 

“Is that dinner I smell,” Sherlock asked as he climbed out of the tent.

 

“It is,” John concurred and patted the spot on their pack blanket next to him, beckoning him to sit. “Enjoy your nap?”

 

“I wasn’t napping,” Sherlock said simply, sitting down cross-legged next to John. “You should know, you watched me for several minutes?”

 

John’s face went slack with horror at being caught. “You knew I was there?”

 

“You were watching him? Creepy, John,” Greg snickered, poking at their meat.

 

“Of course I knew. You’re not exactly stealthy, John.”

 

“What’re you doing when you talk to yourself like that,” John asked, ignoring Greg’s comment and his own embarrassment.

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not talking to myself.”

 

“Really? That’s sure what it looks like you’re doing.”

 

“You talk to yourself,” Greg asked, confused.

 

“I just told you I don’t,” Sherlock snapped defensively. He crossed his arms and muttered, “should have stayed in the tent.”

 

“Come on, Sherlock,” John soothed teasingly, bumping his shoulder with his own. “You can tell us. I promise we’ve seen weirder.”

 

Sherlock squinted suspiciously between them and then stared into the fire. “I was reorganizing my Mind Palace.”

 

John and Greg shared a look that conveyed their mutual confusion. At their unspoken question Sherlock sighed and explained. “It’s a way to organize my memories. A way to efficiently store all my knowledge so I can access it whenever needed.”

 

“I don’t understand,” John said.

 

“Clearly.”

 

“How does it work,” Greg asked.

 

“You really want to know?” Both John and Greg nodded and, after a moment Sherlock gave them a rushed description. “Think of your brain as a palace. Each room has a purpose. One for cooking, one for sleeping, another for washing, and so on and so on. I give each memory a purpose and I “store it” in a room inside my head so I can find it later. Every time I learn a new spell it goes in one “room” in my mind. Every time I read a new book it goes in the “library” of my mind. Do you see?”

 

Blank stares answered him. John couldn’t fathom having a method for storing memories. He just did it without conscious thought, remembering everything he deemed important and not giving a purpose to each one. Sherlock’s way sounded, quite frankly, exhausting.

 

“You think I’m mad now,” Sherlock said petulantly, shifting uncomfortably next to them.

 

“Well, we thought you were made before if it’s any consolation,” John said, trying to bring some levity to the situation. And, going by Sherlock’s tiny uptick in his lips, John counted himself as successful.

 

“While your “Mind Palace” is very interesting, I’m actually curious as to what happened with you fainting yesterday.”

 

“Oh.” Sherlock muttered softly. “I thought we weren’t going to mention that.”

 

“Why,” Greg asked. “Fainting after such a display isn’t exactly something you forget easily.”

 

“You haven’t pestered me all day about it,” Sherlock reasoned. “I didn’t think you were interested in talking about it. Which is fine by me, by the way.”

 

“Nuh-uh,” John said, wagging a finger at him like a naughty child. “You’re not getting out of explaining that easy. We didn’t hound you because we wanted you to rest up first. But now that you’re suitably recovered-”

 

“Hmph, recovered,” Sherlock muttered under his breath.

 

“You can start spilling the beans.” He stoked the fire a little and leaned back on his hands expectantly. “Go on, then. Dinner will be a bit. We’ve got time to kill.”

 

Seeing that there was no way out of it, Sherlock shared for the first time with them a little of his magic.

 

“Magic requires stamina. Small things, like lighting a candle or making a book reshelve itself don’t require much effort and, therefore, you can do tasks like that all day long without any taxing side effects.”

 

“Okay, with you so far,” John assured.

 

“But for big spells you need a large reserve of stamina, of concentration, of energy. Mine was almost extremely depleted when you woke me.”

 

“Why’s that,” Greg asked, excited.

 

“Because the spell that John broke required a constant draw on my stamina. It took great energy to get the spell to take effect and it needed constant upkeep in order for it to work. So, as I laid in bed for two years, every so often, the spell would take a little bit of energy from me to keep it going. The original outpour of energy was very large and it never fully recovered due to the maintenance draws the spell took for itself. ”

 

“Do you ever run out?”

 

“Not entirely. It’s like a cup with a hole in the side. You can fill it over and over again but it will never hold a full cup because of the leak. That’s sort of how that spell worked. A leaky cup, letting energy out at a metered pace. There would always be just a little bit left, but not enough for another big burst of magic. Not without consequences.”

 

“Consequences like fainting,” John prompted.

 

“Exactly.”

 

“Which is why you couldn’t just “magic” your way to freedom that first day.”

 

“Exactly.”  


“What’s that feel like? Your energy,” Greg asked.

 

“What’s it feel like when it’s gone,” John seconded.

 

“You two ask an awful lot of questions,” Sherlock groused.

 

“Sorry, not sorry, keep going,” John prompted.

 

Rolling his eyes, “Well, how do you feel when you’re low on energy? Like your head is pounding, right behind your eyes? Like you could sleep for a hundred years and never be awake again? That’s what it feels like to me when it’s gone.”

 

“And when it’s not,” John asked.

 

“I feel,” Sherlock hesitated, trying to find the right word. I feel like I am full, but light. It’s...hard to describe.”

 

A pause hushed over them, the sound of the fire crackling replacing their conversation. The three of them digested what Sherlock had said, mulling it over. Then John asked a question he had been dying to ask ever since his revelation the night before. “So why did you save us, then?”

 

Sherlock’s head turned to him and he said, “I beg your pardon?”

 

“If your reserves were really so low and you didn’t want to continue on with us, why did you save us?”

 

Sherlock stared at him briefly, cheeks coloring. Then his eyes darted back to the fire. “I couldn’t say. Just didn’t feel right to let you both die.” He smiled cheekily, not looking at either of them. “Besides, traveling with you seemed much less tedious than being stuck in that camp. Felix was rather annoying, I don’t think I would have enjoyed hearing him soliloquize all the live long day.”

 

John laughed and shoved him good naturedly. “Prick.”

 

All three laughed and a little shoving match ensued between John and Sherlock until John was shoved into Greg hard enough to knock them both over.

 

“Oi! Keep me out of your malarky,” Greg complained with no real heat. “I swear, you’re both children.”

 

They both stuck their tongues out in retaliation and, upon realizing it, began laughing uncontrollably. John felt himself listing into Sherlock but couldn’t care about pulling himself back. It felt only natural to be close to him and, this way, he could justify it.

 

The rest of the evening was spent snacking on mushrooms and rabbit, swapping ghost stories, and stoking the fire. When yawns became unsuppressable, they banked the fire and crawled into the tent together. Without even thinking, John took up the center place again and laid down facing Sherlock. He refused to examine or justify it. He was tired after an enjoyable evening and wouldn’t let pesky thoughts about propriety bother him.

  
Just before he fell asleep, he felt Sherlock’s hand slide over his own in the space between them. Hope flickered in his chest that maybe, just maybe, Sherlock didn’t find him tedious at all.


	6. Chapter 6

The next two days were spent making steady progress towards Posh-ville. They walked, rode, ate, and slept in amicable company, evenly dividing up the work. If evenly dividing meant that John and Greg did all the work. Sherlock insisted that as the one who was kidnapped that he would reserve the right to complain and not lift a finger to make his captors’ lives easier. John and Greg silently commiserated but didn’t force him. After the day spent by the river Sherlock was more open and talkative. Not about anything personal, like when he ran off in the first place, but about little tidbits of his life before and John wanted to continue listening to his story. He wouldn’t jeopardize their tentative easiness over something so silly as making camp. He’d pitched a tent in more difficult conditions for less reward, in his opinion. 

 

While they walked to the nearest town of East Nothing, John learned that Sherlock had enjoyed riding his horses. He jousted in tournaments from time to time but what he enjoyed most was racing and hunting. He shared a story of a fox hunt from when he was sixteen. How he, his brother, and members of court went off on a fox hunt and how he had been the first to find a trophy. He had liked that hunt, not just because of his victory but also because his brother had been thrown from his horse and thrown into a pond. He wasn’t hurt, of course, but the way Sherlock described the event, John found him clutching his belly in delight.

 

“You should have seen him, John! Coming out of the pond, soaked to the bone, chest heaving in anger and eyes bugged out, he looked like King of the Toads!”

 

But it wasn’t all horses and courtly gossip. Sherlock proclaimed to detest the gossip but John suspected he enjoyed working out everyone’s dirty laundry. When he wasn’t astride one of his many horses he was studying magic and science combined, developing a new field called alchemy. He expressed great anticipation over catching up with all he had missed while he slept and spouted off theories full of jargon that made John’s head spin.

 

John didn’t understand a word of it but he loved listening to his voice. 

 

In return, John offered his origin story. Rather, he shared the one he told everyone who asked. 

 

“John,” they would ask. “How did you get into the hero business?”

 

“Well,” he would reply. “It all started when my father was captured by an ogre.” The story was so well versed, the emotion and passion he had rehearsed so well that he at times forgot it was a lie. “He was out hunting, providing for my sister, mother and I. He was a great provider, my father. Always away hunting and gathering and working his fingers to the bone as a tanner to keep us clothed and fed and warmed in our beds. Anyway, on one of these trips, an ogre came out of the depths of the woods and dragged my father and the deer he had just killed back to his lair. Now, he was never gone longer than three days. So when he hadn’t returned I went off to search for him and, knowing his favorite spots, I searched them all. Closing in on the last one I found evidence of my father’s capture.” Here he always paused, letting the anticipation mount. 

 

“His hat. The one my mother made special for him, the one he never left home without, laying in the dirt. Well, I knew he would never leave it behind so I knew something terrible had happened so of course I began to shout and call for him. If his hat was there, then he should be nearby, yes? Well, I never imagined an ogre would answer my calls.” 

 

“How old were you,” people would ask in disbelief.

 

“Just a wee lad of ten,” he would tell them. The shocked gasps of women and proud crowing of men would follow and he would soothe them and move on. “That ogre grabbed me by the back of my shirt and dragged me back to his lair, kicking and screaming the whole way. I was terrified! I prayed to the Lord for deliverance, told my mother I loved her and left my wooden sword to my best friend Mike, not that the ogre really understood me of course. Now, it’s common knowledge that ogres love children and I would have been no exception. Except this one got greedy. When we got back to the cave he called home I saw the remains of my father and the deer he caught. I screamed and screamed, terrified that I was next. But, as fate would have it, the ogre was full. He just tossed me inside his cave for a midnight snack and laid down in front of the cave to prevent my escape and took a little nap.”

 

“What happened next,” they would always ask.

 

“Well, if you remember, I told you my dad was a hunter. He always carried his crossbow with him on his hunting trips. Now, don’t ask me what happened to him that he wasn’t able to bring the beast down himself but the ogre stashed the crossbow in his cave in a big pile of other junk that he collected from his victims. So, quietly as could be, I crept over to the pile to retrieve my father’s crossbow. Slowly, I knocked back an arrow and crept up on the beast. When I at last stood over him, I kicked him lightly with my foot to wake him.” Here, he would mime aiming a bolt at an imaginary face. “And I said to him, ‘this is for my father you bastard!’ and shot the abomination in his wretched face!”

 

Just as he had many times before, he recited it once again for Sherlock, feeling a little guilty for keeping such an important piece of himself from Sherlock. Only Greg, his mother, and his sister knew the real truth and John didn’t plan on retelling that story any time soon. No matter how drawn to Sherlock he felt. 

 

When he finished Sherlock looked at him, appraising him from his horse beside him. John felt himself measured and had the distinct feeling that Sherlock didn’t quite believe him. But he didn’t press and he went off on the mythology of ogres and where they might have originated from. 

 

“Of course, this is all conjecture because no one has ever been able to sit down and have a conversation with an ogre. They all end up on the dinner menu before a comprehensive narrative can come to light,” he added after a long winded tirade. 

 

As the sun set on the sixth day of their journey, the small band of men found themselves at the gates of East Nothing. They arrived just before the gates closed for the evening and were directed to an inn where they might find a room for the evening. 

 

“Do you think we could get a hot bath,” Sherlock asked excitedly. “I’m gagging for a hot bath.”

 

“You and us three,” Greg concurred. 

 

The walk to the inn, as place called Open Arms, was a short distance from the gates and they were able to accommodate them with room aplenty for their horses. But there was only one room left with one bed. 

 

“Typical,” John scoffed. “We’re going to have to share.”

 

“Can’t be worse than the space we’ve been sharing,” Greg offered. “The inn’s warmer than the tent and there’s a hot meal here.”

 

“Just once on this journey, I’d like to be able to stretch out rather than huddle,” Sherlock complained as they left their horses in the stables and made their way to the pub. 

 

“Should’ve thought of that before you ran away,” John needled him, jabbing him jokingly in the side.

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and ignored him.  

 

Once inside the pub they quickly found the owner, a large boisterous woman by the name of Millie, and she showed them to their room. One flight up and at the end of a long hallway was their room. Inside wasn’t much; a largish bed, fireplace, and coat stand. 

 

All three men frowned at the size of the bed. 

 

“That bed isn’t big enough for all of us. One of you is going to have to sleep on the floor,” Sherlock commanded. 

 

“Excuse me,” John demanded.

 

“No way,” Greg squawked.

 

“I don’t normally throw my title around all willy nilly,” Sherlock went on, flicking his wrist dramatically. “But I will remind you I am a prince. A captive one, to be sure, but still royalty. Royalty doesn’t sleep on the floor like an animal.”

 

John crossed his arms and glowered. “You’ve been sleeping just fine for the last couple days,” he pointed out.

 

“Because there was no option of a bed,” Sherlock said plainly. He walked over to the bed and sat on it, testing its cushioning. “Believe me, I don’t make a habit of sleeping on the ground.”

 

John watched their easy companionship crumbling quickly and loathed it entirely. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling sharply. He didn’t want to argue with Sherlock after they had just been getting along so nicely.

 

So rather than deal with it, John left their argument unfinished and walked out of the room. 

 

“We’re tabling this discussion,” he said as he left the other two men behind. “I need a pint.

  
  


 

\~*~/

  
  


 

Greg and Sherlock joined John when he was halfway through his first pint. The deep, nutty brew filled him as well as good bread, comforting in its heaviness. He knew Sherlock was right, he was royalty and therefore was entitled to a spot in a real bed. Technically, he was entitled to his own room. But there was only one to be had and they would all have to deal with it. Not to mention how none of them wanted to advertise his status when it was just the three of them. They definitely didn’t need a repeat of the forest bandits. 

 

But John didn’t want to relegate Greg to the floor like a dog. The man deserved better for sticking it out with him.

 

The three of them ordered heaping bowls of stew and a loaf of fresh bread for them to dip and another round of ale a piece. The night crowd in the pub’s carousing was well underway, rowdy and feisty as pubs tend to be. The girls who worked for Millie came by every so often to refresh their mugs and one kept giving Greg the eye every time she passed by. John chuckled into his ale, watching him moon over her, not surprised in the slightest when she “fell” into his lap after tripping over a chair.

 

“I’m sorry for upsetting your table, boys,” she said to them, eyes only for Greg.

 

“Not a problem,” Greg answered. “Happy to catch a falling angel any day.” He winked and she giggled, blushing, and sashayed off. 

 

“You should give it a go, mate,” John offered. 

 

Greg barked a laugh and said, “right. Because my luck is so great? She’s likely to rob me blind.” 

 

John laughed and said, “leave your stuff in our room. If she takes your kit then we’ve got replacements upstairs. Not like you have much money on you anyway.”

 

Still, Greg was hesitant until she came over to drop off another round.

 

“We didn’t order these,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes at her.

 

“Oh, don’t you worry about these, sir. These are on the house.”

 

“And why might that be,” John asked.

 

Girl shrugged and said, “tips were good and you boys looked like you were in need of,” she dragged her finger through the condensation on the table, “refreshing.”

 

Greg swallowed thickly, clearly warring with himself. Both John and Sherlock rolled their eyes. Enough was enough. Sherlock kicked his shin and John nudged him in the side with his shoulder, jolting him into action. 

 

“I- I must insist on finding a way to repay you,” Greg offered. 

 

She curled a strand of hair around her finger and said, “I’m sure we can find someway for you to “work” it off.” She crooked a finger at him and walked back towards the stables.

 

Without looking at his two companions Greg stood, straightening his shirt. “Don’t wait up, boys.”

 

Once he was gone the two left behind burst into laughter.

 

“Did that really just happen,” Sherlock asked, stunned. “That never happens in real life!”

 

“Well then, we must be in the midst of some kind of steamy romance novel,” John reasoned. 

 

“We must,” Sherlock agreed. He drained his complimentary mug in three large swallows and John felt his own mouth run dry at the sight. The muscles moving in Sherlock’s throat, widening and constricting to accommodate the swill had him wondering what else would go down his throat just as easy.

Suddenly, the room was too hot. Every time he and Sherlock were left alone together John’s mind made it its mission to torment him with scandalous thoughts. It didn’t help that they still woke every morning wrapped around each other and now woke to mutual morning wood poking rudely into each other’s thighs and stomachs. He never initiated it but he wasn’t always the first to pull away either. He loved waking up to Sherlock, warm and pliant under his hands. He wanted to touch him without the excuse of having done so in his sleep. He wanted the permission to reach out and trace the smooth muscles of Sherlock’s neck and shoulders and feel them tremble. 

 

He suppressed a pleased shudder at the thought.

 

Sherlock interrupted his filthy thoughts by asking, “do you think they have any wine here? Ale isn’t really all that appealing.”

 

Pushing off his musings, John shrugged. “S’asking a bit much of a pub like this, Sherlock.”

 

He shrugged, “can’t hurt.”

 

As luck would have it, the inn kept a small stock of local wine and they sold them a bottle. It was a dry red wine and John was not at all interested. Still, to be polite, he drank down a glass. He had already had several pints of ale and now wine and he was starting to feel warm and happy. Not quite tipsy but definitely on the road to it. 

 

Sherlock, on the other hand, was already at tipsy and making his way towards drunk. 

 

He downed a third of the bottle by himself and soon his eyes were drooping with the lull of liquor. He abandoned his glass in favor of swigging straight from the bottle. John chuckled lightly, settling into his chair comfortably. He folded his arms and splayed his legs a little wider than politely accepted, watching his charge lick the red stain off his lips. 

 

“Is that how they taught you to drink at the palace,” he joked.

 

“God no,” Sherlock answered, huffing a quick laugh. “Mummy would be scandalized should she see an actual bottle touch my lips.” He clutched his neck and said in a mockingly feminine voice, “‘William Sherlock Scott Holmes, you will drink from a glass like a civilized man! You are not a barbarian and you will not behave like one!’”

 

John laughed heartily, tipping his head back, grabbing his mug and raising it to his lips. He downed a swallow and asked, “William Sherlock Scott Holmes? Your name is William?”

 

“My name is Sherlock,” Sherlock insisted. “William is so,” he scrunched his nose, “ordinary and stuffy. Not at all what I would have chosen.”

 

John found himself laughing easily with this man. He always laughed easy in the face of a good laugh but ever since Mary broke his heart...well...it was harder to let go. But Sherlock did it so effortlessly and John felt utterly exposed. Not that he minded much at that moment, humming with drink as he was. 

 

“And what would you have chosen, if you had had a say on the day of your birth?”

 

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully, bringing his fingers to his mouth to toy with his lower lip as he thought. John’s eyes immediately dropped to Sherlock’s lips and saw how shiny they were with his saliva. Almost irresistible. 

 

Almost.

 

Finally, Sherlock proclaimed, “Benedict!”

 

“Benedict?”

 

“Yes. It’s funny. And yet distinguished.”

 

“So utterly unlike you,” John teased.

 

“I am appalled, John Watson,” he said full of mock hurt. He tipped his head back to drink another swallow of wine and noticed half the bottle had made its way into Sherlock. 

 

Not wanting him to overdo it, John reached across and plucked it out of Sherlock’s hands. “I think you’re done.”

 

“Hey! That’s mine,” Sherlock scolded, reaching across the table to try and snatch it back. 

 

John pushed his chair back, keeping the bottle well out of reach and said, “it’s late and I think we should be getting to bed. Getting you going in the morning is already going to be a pain, drunk as you are.”

 

“I am  _ not  _ drunk,” Sherlock protested.

 

John quirked an amused eyebrow and stood up. “Alright, then. Prove it.” He motioned for Sherlock to stand. “Stand up.” Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and moved to stand, wobbling on the way up. John caught his wrist and righted him. “That’s what I thought. Bedtime,” he said triumphantly.

 

“Spoilsport,” Sherlock mumbled and lead the way to their room. He teetered momentarily on the stairs and John had to hold a hand to his back to keep him from falling backward as they climbed the stairs. After successfully navigating the stairs they made it to their room and Sherlock dropped face first on the bed.

 

“Good bed,” he said to it lovingly, patting the cushioning like one would a child or favorite pet. 

 

“Git, budge over. You’re taking up the whole bed.” 

 

Sherlock’s head lifted from the duvet and he said, “I want to finish the bottle.”

 

“Why? You’re already drunk. You won’t like the hangover in the morning, I guarantee you.”

 

“Then drink it with me.”

 

“It’s shit wine.”

 

_ “Pleeeeeeease,” _ Sherlock said, batting his eyes and pouting.

 

And fuck it all if that didn’t do anything for him. If someone told him that begging for anything other than his cock would get him hot under the collar, John would have laughed in their face. But he could see it, vividly, Sherlock whining “please” for things other than wine. It surprised him enough that his grip on the bottle loosened and Sherlock took it from him, quickly uncorking it and taking a swallow.

 

Surrendering to his predicament, John shuffled Sherlock over and dropped onto the empty space. He took the bottle back and took a swallow with a grimace and passed it back. After choking it down he said, “how can you drink that stuff?”

 

“Pfft, please, I’m sure you’ve had worse things in your mouth.”

 

John’s ears reddened but he didn’t admit it. All he did was wordlessly take the bottle back and drink. There was about a third left and he passed it back to Sherlock. Silence enveloped the room as, propped up against the headboard, they drained the last of the wine. Sherlock killed the bottle and tossed it off the end of the bed with a loud clunk. They both winced at the sound and John faced him to tell him to be more careful but the words died in his throat. A single drop of red wine clung to Sherlock’s lower lip and he hadn’t noticed it. 

 

That drop taunted him. 

 

If he drew Sherlock’s attention to it then Sherlock could lick it off or wipe it off with his sleeve. 

 

_ But what a waste _ , his traitorous mind argued.  _ It’s not great wine but oh, think how sweet it would taste from his lips. _ All it would take was one swipe of his thumb against the plush muscle or a moist lick from his tongue and the offending drop would be gone. 

 

_ Maybe I’m drunker than I thought _ , John theorized. 

 

“John, what are you staring at? Do I have something on my face?” 

 

Sherlock’s talking upset the drop and it slipped over his lip and slid down to trail toward his chin. Safer territory. Emboldened by alcohol, John reached out and wiped his thumb across the wine droplet, Sherlock’s eyelids fluttering at his touch. He brought back his moistened thumb and licked it clean. It was impossible for it to be sweeter just for having touched Sherlock’s lips but it didn’t stop him from groaning softly. 

 

Without seeming to have moved, they leaned closer to each other with their heads angled perfectly. It would take nothing at all to fall into each other. To kiss him. But Sherlock’s previous insistence of disinterest and the fact that he was undoubtedly drunk made John pull back. Made him swing his feet off the bed to take his boots off, just so he could focus on something that wasn’t Sherlock’s mouth.

 

He could feel Sherlock’s confused gaze rake over him. “John?”

 

“We should get some sleep. And you should get your boots off, too.” 

 

Moving distractedly, Sherlock scooted to the foot of the bed, back turned to John, and began to take off his boots. John’s eyes fell across Sherlock’s back, aching to touch. But instead, he shook his head and rose to strip off his outer wear.

 

“What are you doing,” Sherlock asked, nervous.

 

“Taking advantage of a room with a locked door and sleeping in night clothes,” John answered. He hung his doublet on the coat stand and dug into the pack for the two night shirts they’d packed for nights spent at inns on their travels. He tossed Greg’s to Sherlock and said, “Greg’s taller. Might be more comfortable for you than your riding clothes.”

 

Nodding wordlessly, Sherlock caught the shirt and turned his back to change. John wanted desperately to watch everything be revealed to him but he remembered their day at the river. Sherlock had wanted a small piece of modesty then so, respectfully, he turned his back and dropped his trousers and small clothes before sliding the night shirt over his head. 

 

The shushing of fabric was the only sound between them, both seeming to have mutually agreed to hold their breath. 

 

In unison, they turned to face each other and climbed back into bed. Under proper covers, in a proper bed, the urge to curl himself around Sherlock and kiss him, to touch him, grew exponentially. He chanced a look at Sherlock and found the man staring at him with something akin to pleading in his eyes. Had he gotten it wrong? Did Sherlock want him? Or was it just the drink?

 

_ It had to be the drink _ , john rationalized. He licked his lips and said, “Good night, Sherlock,” before rolling his back to Sherlock and hunkering down to sleep. 

 

His last thought before the sweet bliss of sleep released him was his mind calling him coward. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a longer chapter than anticipated so have fun, y'all!

 

It was no surprise to John that he woke up with an armful of Sherlock. His chest fluttered with fondness but tightened immediately with guilt. He had been so close to taking advantage of his charge and John felt himself frown as he looked down on the sleeping man. It didn’t matter that Sherlock was a grown man, fully capable of making his own decisions. He came into Sherlock’s life because of a job. A job he was well on the way to finishing. That job did not include seducing Sherlock before dropping him off at his doorstep. 

 

But that didn’t stop him from wanting it desperately. 

 

Sherlock shifted in John’s arms, clearly still asleep, and a new wave of guilt invaded John as he watched Sherlock dream. Knowing he should give the man some privacy, John started to slide backwards and out of the bed but Sherlock’s arms tightened around his torso, preventing his escape. He whined softly in protest and John settled down into the mattress again for fear of waking him. Wanting to soothe him, John brushed the hair back from Sherlock’s face, noting the frown lines creasing his brow. Clearly, whatever his dream was, it was not a pleasant one. Sherlock whimpered once more and burrowed his face into John’s neck. 

 

“Shh,” John cooed softly, stroking the man’s hair as Sherlock’s dream further distressed him. “I’m here.”

 

“Juuh,” Sherlock’s drowsy voice huffed into his neck. “Nnnno.”

 

John’s eyes widened. Was Sherlock dreaming of him? “Juh” could be the beginning of any number of words, not just his name. It could be coincidence. 

 

John weighed the pros and cons of waking him. On one hand, he was probably going to be hungover and needed all the rest he could get. By the way the sun glinted in the window, they already lost a good head start of the day anyway and a couple more hours wouldn’t make much of a difference at this rate. _ But what if he was scared in his dream, _ his mind countered.  _ You could comfort him while he was awake.  _ Then he thought of how they needed to find Greg and resupply for the next leg of their journey. 

 

All thought ceased, however, as he felt Sherlock’s lips press meaningfully into his neck. John stilled as if frozen. The skin on his neck tingled where Sherlock’s lips ghosted over him just above the collar of his shirt. It was apparent that whatever dream Sherlock had been having turned from a nightmare into something else entirely and John both wanted it to end and desperately wanted it to keep going. Sherlock’s fingers clutched the fabric tightly on John’s chest and the unmistakable feel of warm, hard flesh through two layers of fabric pressed into his stomach. Sherlock’s hips twitched minutely and then the decision to wake Sherlock was taken out of his hands. 

 

Sherlock gasped awake. He went from warm and pliant to marblesque in the span of a second and loathed to feel the exchange from asleep to awake. From unconscious desire to waking regret. 

 

_ Maybe he hadn’t been dreaming of me _ , John thought sadly. 

 

Silence enveloped them and stretched out in unbearably long minutes until John broke it. “Good dream, I take it,” he teased, hoping Sherlock found the prod humorous. 

 

Sherlock cleared his throat but refused to move his face from the security of John’s neck. “It was enjoyable, yes.”

 

“Dare I ask what it was about?”

 

Rather than answer, Sherlock scrambled over John to stalk towards the door to make an escape. John sat up, mouth open to stop Sherlock’s retreat but he was spared the need. Hand outstretched to turn the knob, Sherlock suddenly realized his state of dress and realized that, unless he wanted to scandalize the scullery maids, he would need to put clothes on. Greg’s nightshirt, while comfortable, was not at all suitable for public appearances. 

 

John watched him as he snatched up his discarded clothes. He quickly jammed his legs into the trousers before whipping off Greg’s shirt and tossing it in John’s direction. It landed on the bed just as Sherlock brought the hem of his shirt over his head and settled it over his stomach. Another quick dart of his arms brought him his boots and he strode out the door barefoot and quite disheveled. 

 

Once the door closed, John flopped back down onto the mattress and with a deep groan he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

 

“Fuck! Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck,” John cursed to the empty room. 

 

He kicked off the covers and quickly dressed himself. He took the extra time to do up his boots and shrug on his doublet and grab Sherlock’s as well before leaving their room. He sighed, knowing they would need to rent for another night. They still needed to resupply and he was sure it was nearing midday.  _ No sense at riding off at this point, _ John scowled internally. 

 

John made his way down the stairs and into the common room to find Greg happily munching away on food. Sherlock was nowhere to be found.

 

When Greg caught sight of John he waved him over and then waved over his girl from the night before. “Penny, this is my friend and employer, Sir John Watson.”

 

John made a bow and said, “how do you do, miss?”

 

“You’re  _ The _ Sir John?! From the stories?!”

 

John nodded, uncharacteristically shy. Sherlock bolting had left him more vulnerable than usual and he felt his ears warm in embarrassment. “That I am. At your service.”

 

Penny perched herself in Greg’s lap and gave him a sultry look. “Should’a been at  _ your _ service last night.”

 

“Oi! Weren’t hearing any complaints from you last night, missy,” Greg complained.

 

“Ooh, of course not,” Penny soothed, kissing him full on the lips. 

 

“As touching as this is,” John gestured between the two, “have you see Sherlock?”

 

“Yeah,” Lestrade jabbed a thumb towards the door. “Saw him bolt outta here barefoot without his jacket. What’d you do?”

 

“Why does everything have to be my fault,” John asked rhetorically, dropping into the chair opposite Greg and put his head in his hands. 

 

“Penny, dear,” Greg said, “would you mind getting Sir John a plate?”

 

“Of course.” 

 

When she was gone Greg addressed John. “Look, I’m not blind. Something’s going on between you two, just admit it.”

 

“Nothing to admit,” John answered honestly. “We haven’t done anything.”

 

“Except wake up in each other’s arms every morning. And bicker like an old married couple. And tell each other stories of your childhood, even if I know you’re not telling him everything. Not to mention ignoring all else but yourselves this entire time.”

 

John frowned. “I didn’t mean to ignore you,” John said, chastised. 

 

“I won’t say it doesn’t smart sometimes. But I get it. That’s part of the squire game, John. I’m used to being scenery.”

 

“You’re more than scenery, Greg.”

 

“We’re not talking about me here, John. We’re talking about you and Sherlock and this... _ thing _ you two have.”

 

“Which is nothing,” John said firmly. 

 

“So sure of that are you?” John nodded and Greg sighed. Penny returned with John’s plate and made herself scarce, knowing she was not welcome in the conversation. “Think about it. Do you really think that he’d still be here, letting you wrap your tentacly arms around him every night if he didn’t feel something, too?”

 

“He’s the one with the tentacle arms,” John decreed. “I never initiate the cuddling.”

 

“And yet there you are, every morning, happily snoring into his ear and he lets you. I love you, John, but the only time you and I ever cuddled was for warmth when we were adventuring in the unforgiving north in winter. And that was more out of survival than desire to hold you close.” Then he speared a bit of sausage and grinned at him before taking a bite. “Not that you weren’t a pleasure to spoon with, mind.”

 

John snorted a laugh despite himself. “Prick.” He stabbed into his own sausage and hummed in pleasure at having something in his stomach. 

 

“In all seriousness. You should think about this before you go dismissing the signs, mate.”

 

“I have thought about this. You were there. He punched me and shouted that I was unwelcome to touch him. And while we’ve been friendly so far on this trip that doesn’t mean he wants me for anything. We don’t know if his magic has recharged itself, he could just be waiting until it is to go running off again. He hasn’t expressed interest in me, or “us”, while being awake. Some people like to cuddle and will do it to a troll while asleep. Means nothing.”

 

Greg just shrugged and didn’t press the point. They ate quietly for a few moments before he pointed at Sherlock’s forgotten doublet on the back of John’s chair. “Why’d you bring that?”

 

John cast a glance at it and shrugged. “Thought he’d stick around long enough for me to give it to him. He walked off without it and I felt bad, him running out half dressed.” Greg nodded and they finished their meal in peace.

 

After they ate they called for Millie and told her they’d be using the room for one more night. Not much later, the two made their way to the shops to stock up supplies for the next leg of their journey. Half bushel of apples, few wheels of cheese, loaves of hardened bread, more dried meat, and John pushed for a precious measure of salt for cooking. Next they paid their dues at the well and got all the water they could carry. Ladened with supplies, John and Lestrade crashed into their room to find Sherlock soaking in a steaming tub. 

 

“Do you two ever knock,” Sherlock drawled in a bored voice, clearly irritated at having been disturbed. 

 

“Nice to see you relaxing when we’re out working,” John shot back.

 

“No different from any other day,” Sherlock replied, laying a flannel across his eyes and sinking further into the giant tub. He covered his bits from view with his hands and sighed deeply. “Must you intrude on my bathtime?”

 

“Sorry princess,” John said through clenched teeth. “But the adults have things to do. Like packing.”

 

“Leave me alone for a little longer and I promise to leave you some warm water for washing yourselves,” Sherlock offered. 

 

Exhaling sharply through his nose, John said, “okay, fine. Have it your way.” The two men walked out and back into the pub. John ordered a pint and downed half of it in one go. He should have been concerned with the amount of money they were bleeding at East Nothing but John couldn’t be buggered. Just downed the rest in the next swallow and growled out for another. 

 

Ten minutes or so later Sherlock came down the stairs, hair still wet but dressed properly and told them the water was still warm if they were interested. 

 

John didn’t trust his voice but thankfully Greg sensed that. “What are you going to do while we’re washing up,” Greg asked. 

 

“Eating dinner. Still not fully recovered and food will help.” At their scrutinising looks Sherlock rolled his eyes and stuck his fists on his hips. “I am not running off. I promise to be right here waiting when you’re done.” He placed a fist over his heart and chanted the childhood phrase, “cross my heart and hope to die.”

 

Without further conversation, both men stood from their stools and went up to their room. 

 

John couldn’t even really pinpoint why he was upset. He was getting whiplash from bouncing back and forth between wanting to melt into the man and wanting to strangle him. It was exhausting and infuriating to say the least. So, rather than talk about it, he stripped off his clothes and dipped a flannel into the lukewarm water to wash himself. 

 

The two men shared the slightly grimy, cooling water to bathe perfunctorily. Sherlock may not have been that dirty but road dust clung to everything and the water was not the best but it was warm which, to John, was better than the river. 

 

“You’re mad cause he kicked you out,” Greg commented, running a flannel over his chest. 

 

“He kicked you out, too,” John pointed out.

 

“Yes but you’re mad because he kicked  _ you _ out. I don’t care, frankly. I’m just glad the water’s still warm. You, on the other hand, wanted-”

 

“What I wanted,” John interrupted snappily, “was to pack in peace.”

 

Greg snorted. “Okay, John.” The water sloshed as they dipped their heads into the water to get the dirt out of their hair. After straightening and toweling off Greg passed John a fresh set of trousers and said, “you wanted him to let you in.”

 

“What?”

 

Greg buttoned his trousers and gave him a knowing look. “You’ve always been used to people trusting you right off the bat. They hear the name “Sir John Watson” and remember the stories and they find comfort in your presence. ‘Oh, the great knight Sir John’s here! Let me swoon over him and find him endlessly charming and find safety in his arms’,” Greg said mockingly, pantomiming a swoon. “But Sherlock’s different. He can’t trust us because we did, in all fairness, kidnap him. He might be going along with it for now because his magic is still weak but he is at our mercy and he knows it. We’ve drugged him and carted him out of his tower and tied him up when he wouldn’t come willingly. Of course he doesn’t trust us. Cut the man some slack.”

 

John knew Greg was right. It made sense. He had made the same argument to himself many times. But that didn’t mean Sherlock not trusting him to even share space with him while he bathed didn’t hurt. It wasn’t just a matter of wanting to see Sherlock naked, though that was a factor. It was as Greg said, he wanted get close and Sherlock didn’t want to let him.  _ Damn this quest, _ John cried internally. 

 

“Suppose you’re right.”

 

“You know I am.” Greg buttoned his doublet and patted John on the shoulder. “Look, I’m not expert-”

 

“Could’ve fooled me-”

 

“But if you want someone to trust you then you need to show you are worthy of trust. So far, you haven’t.” John nodded silently, thinking over Greg’s advice. “Now, if you don’t mind, I fancy another romp with Penny before we take off in the morning. Think you can handle one more night with His Majesty without me?”

 

John grinned and shoved Greg off him. “Sod off. Ain’t right, you getting the girl when I don’t.”

 

“Take it up with the author of our stories, Sir John,” Greg said with a chuckle as they made their way back towards the pub. 

  
  


\~*~/

  
  


Greg had spent their last night in East Nothing with Penny, just as he wanted to. John and Sherlock shared an uncomfortably quiet night together in the pub, this time nursing a couple pints before it grew late enough to make the excuse to go to bed. They turned their backs to each other without discussing it as they changed into nightshirts and crawled stiffly into bed.

 

Unlike the nights before, they laid on their backs side by side and staring fully awake at the ceiling. Tension rolled between them and it was so thick it threatened to choke John. He didn’t begrudge Greg getting a leg over with Penny but he hoped he was having a grand ol’ time if John had to suffer alone for it. 

 

_ Of course he doesn’t trust us. If you want someone to trust you then you need to show them you’re worthy of trust. Cut the man some slack. _

 

Greg’s words tortured him just as much as Sherlock’s body heat did, both of them attacking his body and mind until he could scream. He thought of anything he could do to show Sherlock that he deserved his trust, kidnapping aside. A solution presented himself and John toyed with it for several minutes, unsure if he should trust Sherlock with it. But, then again, that therein lies the test. To gain trust you must show it, right?

 

Taking the plunge, John cleared his throat and asked softly, “Sherlock, are you awake?”

 

“Yes. What do you want.” He sounded a little put out but didn’t make a move to shut him out, turn away, or run away. 

 

John took that as encouragement and said, “I want to tell you a story.”

 

“I think I’m a little old for bedtime stories, John.”

 

“Humor me.” He took Sherlock’s silence as a sign to continue and so he did. “This is the story of a little boy who grew up to be a hero. He slayed beasts and rescued princesses-”

 

“And princes,” Sherlock added curtly.

 

John smiled and agreed, “and princes. He fought in wars and traveled to faraway lands. Everyone loved him and praised him. Everyone was in awe of his greatness-”

 

“So humble, John-”

 

“Shut it, I’m talking. Anyway, they always wanted to know how he started. Why he chose to be a hero.”

 

“You said it was an ogre. The death of your father.”

 

“Half right,” John admitted. 

 

A beat of silence. Then Sherlock prompted, “go on.”

 

“My father was the ogre.” He took a deep breath then elaborated. “I said my father was a great provider and he was. He provided us with an endless stream of disappointment and fear. His hunts were him taking trips to the town next over to visit his mistress. Of course he’d come home with a few fish or a deer or rabbits or something like that to make a show of being a family man hunting for his wife and children. But it was all a lie. And when he wasn’t off visiting Her, he was drinking in the tavern and hitting my mum.” He folded his arms defensively, “he was a tanner though. That part was true. When he wasn’t off being a total shit person, at least.”

 

“So what happened?”

 

“I’d had enough. Mum never stopped crying, my sister Harriet never stopped crying because mum was crying, and I just wanted him to be a father. Teach me his craft, play with Harry and I, hug mum without having to apologize for hitting her. So, when he went off on one of his trips to see Her, never did find out her name, I followed him. I confronted him. Looking back, it wasn’t the smartest thing I’d ever done, confronting a drunk and angry man.”

 

“You were a child,” Sherlock reassured.

 

“And already making questionable decisions.” A weight landed softly on his arm and it startled him. John looked down to see Sherlock resting his hand comfortably there, lending strength to him. He turned his head to see that Sherlock had shifted to lay on his side and he was staring openly at him. John swallowed back the sudden lead weight in his throat and went on. “Anyway, he didn’t like his son “preaching to him” as he put it. He said he’d teach me a lesson in respect and reached out and hit me.” John squirmed at the memory and Sherlock tightened his hold soothingly. “He hit me over and over and shoved me to the ground and kicked me. I kept asking him to stop, that I was sorry but he didn’t listen. When he was done he walked off and left me there, bleeding and gasping in the dirt. It was humiliating.”

 

Sherlock asked him, almost whispering, “what happened next?” 

 

“I went home. I somehow made it to my house without anyone else seeing me but mum, god, when mum saw me she cried harder than when da had hit her. She held me tight and it hurt but I let her do it. She cried and wished she had the strength to kill him herself, to stop him from hurting us again. I knew she never would.”

 

Sherlock, knowing where he was going filled it in for him. “So you killed him.”

 

John nodded. “Da had left his crossbow behind. Clearly, he hadn’t planned on deer hunting so I took it and waited for him in the woods. When he came staggering back, a trout in tow, I stepped out of hiding with what was now my crossbow and aimed it at him. ‘You don’t have the guts’ he said. I didn’t even hesitate. I pulled the trigger and it got him right in the heart. He fell immediately and red came spewing from his mouth and I walked right up to him and told him to rot in hell. I watched him die and left him for the wolves.”

 

It had been years since he told this story to anyone. First his mum and his sister, though he omitted the last part of cursing him and leaving him for the wolves. Then Greg after many, many quests together and one too many tankards of ale. And now Sherlock.

 

“And you told everyone an ogre had taken him to explain away your bruises and his sudden absence.”

 

“Spot on,” John confirmed. “My father wasn’t terribly well liked and so no one questioned me. Wolves dragged his body off to a cave and someone found the remains a couple months later. Added to my story. Everyone believed me. I was a hero to my family and good story to my village.”

 

“And you wanted to continue being a hero,” Sherlock finished.

 

“Yes.”

 

The room grew quiet. John could hear the faint, muffled sound of the pub below and the hoot of an owl outside but was reluctant to say more. He’d said what he wanted to say, giving Sherlock the truth about himself, and trusted that Sherlock would keep it to himself. He thought that Sherlock had drifted off, they were quiet for so long but then Sherlock startled him. 

 

“Why tell me now? I had believed your first story.”

 

John turned his head to look at Sherlock in the dim of their room. “No you didn’t.”

 

Sherlock smiled shyly and ducked his head. “You’re right, I didn’t. But I accepted it. So, why tell me?”

 

“Because.” John hesitated, licking his lips. He had never examined why he wanted Sherlock to trust him, only knew that he did. It was maddening, sharing a bed and tent and every waking hour together and only seeing glimmers of the real Sherlock beneath his walled off exterior. Prolonged exposure to someone endeared you to a person, it was true. But even when he was with Mary, planning a life with her, he never had the desire to bear himself fully to her. Greg came close but he didn’t have the drive to bond with Greg in a physically intimate way behind those of brothers in arms. Sherlock was new and unexpected and terrifying. “Because you deserve the truth. About me, I mean. To know why I became a hero in the first place. To save people.”

 

“Including me,” Sherlock asked.

 

“Do you need saving,” John asked honestly. “I know your brother is no picnic, believe me I’ve met him. But are you in danger with him?”

 

Sherlock shook his head, his hair shushing against the pillow. John longed to ask why, then, was he so adamant about going back home. But rather than shatter the foundations he just laid between them, John made him a promise. “Sherlock, if you ever need saving, from anything at all, you need only ask.” 

 

He raised his hand intending to cup Sherlock’s cheek but at the last second laid it on the man’s shoulder comfortingly. Sherlock’s eyes darted between John’s hand and his face, gears turning in his brilliant brain. 

 

At long last Sherlock whispered, “thank you.”

 

John ducked his head in a small bow of acceptance and withdrew his hand. “You’re welcome.” And with that, he closed his eyes and settled in to sleep. Just before falling asleep he felt the comforting weight of Sherlock draping his arm across his chest. He didn’t even try to ward off the answering smile as he hugged the arm closer before drifting off. 

  
  


\~*~/

  
  


The next morning brought John another morning cuddle at dawn. To make up for lost time, John roused Sherlock and together they dressed and went off in search of Greg. Luckily for them, the squire was up and readying their horses by the time they found him in the stables. It took less than an hour for them to check the horses, pack them, grab breakfast and settle their bill and then they were off and on the roads to Posh-ville once more. 

 

The closer they got to Posh-ville, the safer the roads got. They no longer worried so much about bandits on the road and talked freely whenever they paused their riding to rest the horses. But having lost two days total to resting on their journey, they rode hard and fast to make up for lost time. They were far from another village yet and so their next evening was spent in the woods once again. 

 

Never breaking pattern, Sherlock lounged lazily as Greg and John set up camp. He did however, uncharacteristically, offer to make tea once the fire was made.

 

“Where did you get tea,” Greg asked excitedly.

 

“From the market. I do know how to shop, you know.”

 

John huffed back a laugh, “spend money more like.”

 

“Same thing,” Sherlock replied.

 

John couldn’t argue there and went about fixing setting up their tent while Sherlock boiled water for their tea. When the tent was up and their bedrolls tossed in, John and Greg sat down with Sherlock between them and were granted a cup of tea each. John bit back a groan as the bitter liquid filled his mouth. It wasn’t perfect but it was glorious after such a long stretch without it. 

 

“Blimey, this is just what I needed,” Greg said into his cup.

 

“Your welcome,” Sherlock replied, taking a sip from his own cup. 

 

Together the three drank and ate dinner, more bread and jerky. Conversation was small, talking mostly of strategizing for the next day of their journey. “If we continue tomorrow as we did today, we should be on track to arrive in five days. Give nor take,” Greg said. 

 

“Is that all,” Sherlock said absentmindedly. 

 

“Well, we’ve been on the road for half a month now, Sherlock,” John told him. “You’re an entire kingdom away from our village.”

 

Sherlock said nothing, just stared into the fire while John and Greg resumed their strategizing. Suddenly, he rose and muttered something about having to piss and took off into the darkness of the woods. The two men watched him go and then shared a look of confusion. 

 

“Let him be for now,” John said to Greg when he looked like he was going to follow. “We knew he wasn’t happy going back. Maybe it’s sinking in now.”

 

Greg nodded. “Probably right.”

 

“I’ll go look for him if he’s not back in a few minutes,” John declared. He counted the time in his head and when Sherlock still hadn’t returned ten minutes later, he got up to follow. 

 

John made his way carefully through the dark, letting his eyes adjust after losing the blaring light of their fire. One hand on his sword and the other held out for balance should he stumble, he picked through the underbrush, scanning for Sherlock’s familiar frame. He soon found him; pressed up against a large tree, hands covering his face and panting heavily. He was panicking and John’s heart ached to see him in such distress. 

 

“Hey, Sherlock,” John crooned softly. The man’s head shot up, panic written clearly on his flushed face. He moved to run but John held out his hand, urging him to stay. “Please, don’t run.”

 

“I-I can’t,” Sherlock choked out.

 

“Can’t what,” John prompted, approaching Sherlock as if he were a spooked horse.

 

“I can’t go back.”

 

John had asked him the night before but he asked again, “Sherlock, are you in danger if you go back home?”

 

“Not as such,” Sherlock panted. 

 

John crept closer, close enough to touch his shoulder with his fingertips. Sherlock jumped but didn’t jerk away and John took that encouragingly. He spread first one hand and then the other across Sherlock’s shoulder and held him steady while he tried to get his breathing back under control. “Not as such. Okay. So not in mortal danger, I take it.”

 

“No.”

 

“But in danger of something else.”

 

“Yes.”

 

John waited, hoping against hope that Sherlock would tell him. He was a patient man, needed to be in his line of work. If you were an impatient knight, you became a dead knight. You rush a quest you get a rotten quest. So, rather than press, he pulled Sherlock into his arms and he felt Sherlock’s come around him as he sagged into John. 

 

John held him, running his hands comfortingly up and down Sherlock’s spine. Incrementally, he felt the man stop panting and he held himself more solidly until he could stand entirely on his own. Still, he let himself be held and John relished the chance to hold him without the preface of sleep. Sherlock was more alive this way, vibrating from his emotions and lighter. John let himself nuzzle, just once, against Sherlock’s hair and hoped that it came off as comforting. 

 

The world shut itself off from them. Only the two of them existed in this moment. The sounds of the forest vanished and were replaced with the sounds of their even breathing. Then, unexpectedly, Sherlock asked without lifting his head from John’s neck, “John?”

 

“Yes, Sherlock?”

 

“You...you told me something last night that was a great measure of trust.”

 

John nodded, chin brushing Sherlock’s shoulder. “I did.”

 

“I think it’s only fair if I do the same.”

 

John pulled back just enough to force Sherlock to look at him. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to. This isn’t a ‘tit-for-tat’ thing.”

 

“I want to,” Sherlock insisted. 

 

John nodded again and told him, “if you’re sure, then I’ll listen.”

 

Sherlock blew a nervous breath out through puffed cheeks. He steadied himself with one more deep breath and then told him plainly, “I’m to be married.”

 

John blinked. “Married?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “That’s why I ran. I’ve been betrothed to a woman named Irene since I was four. Irene Adler of Belgravia.”

 

John whistled, impressed. The woman was a very wealthy princess and was widely regarded to be a woman of great beauty and poise. “Quite a catch, there.”

 

Sherlock scowled. “I do not wish to be married.”

 

“Lots of people don’t. But they do anyway. For lots of reasons. Is she really so unagreeable?”

 

“She’s not so bad,” Sherlock said, removing his arms and leaning back against the tree. John mourned the loss but let move freely. “She’s beautiful, witty, good with the books, excellent rider.”

 

“So what’s the problem?”

 

“Marriage, romantic entanglements, they’re a prison. They keep you rooted to the spot, forever in service to someone else and no longer your own person. Not that I had much freedom to begin with but once married to a princess I’d be expected to “shape up”. To give up the riding, the books, the learning, everything! I’d have to start playing the game of a proper prince and never have a moment’s peace to myself again. Attached to a woman who does not and will never love me.”

 

“How do you know that?”

 

Sherlock smiled wryly. “She is already in love with her handmaiden, Kate.”

 

“Ah. I see.”

 

“Yes. I would be trapped in a loveless marriage to a woman who, while agreeable, does not care about me and would be made to give up my pursuits regardless of my desires all so my family can make a strategic alliance. When I was young I never contested it because children die all the time and had hoped that she-”

 

“Sherlock, bit not good-”

 

“But true, nonetheless. I never thought about it after our engagement ceremony. We were children, for Christ’s sake! It was absurd to me then and absurd to me now to expect children to make a vow without knowing the long term consequences. She was mostly out of sight and out of mind, only visiting once a year. Then all of a sudden, I turn twenty five and my mother tells me it’s time to plan our wedding and I saw my whole, tiny life flash before my life! I was going to die without having fully lived and that scared me to death!”

 

“So you ran.”

 

“So I ran.”

 

“And why you put the spell on you. To keep you from being woken up and carted back and married. You thought your life was over anyway so what’s the difference, right?”

 

Sherlock looked at him with awe, tears collecting in his shiny eyes. “You understand,” he stated, breathless.

 

John felt the enormity in that admission. Sherlock’s eyes bored into him, all the way to his soul and John knew that a great shift between them had taken place. He nodded that he understood and saw a tear slide down Sherlock’s cheek in response.

“Oh John,” he whimpered before grabbing his head and tugging it forward so he could crash their lips together. 

 

John’s heart soared, his soul rattled, his body tingled, and he felt incredibly full. He felt a dam break inside him and he surged forward to deepen their kiss. It was as different from their first kiss as night and day. Where their first kiss was short and unsatisfying, too short to feel anything other than the blow to the back of his head, this one was full of emotion that John felt down to his toes. John pressed Sherlock into the tree behind him and Sherlock groaned when their chests met. John’s hand snaked into Sherlock’s hair, gently tugging while his mouth sucked his lower lip into his mouth. Sherlock’s knees buckled and his hands grasped John’s shoulders desperately. Tongues met and tasted one another and lips slid over each other hungrily. 

 

They pulled back, gasping for air, chests heaving and John caught Sherlock’s eye. They were still shiny but full of fire and wonder when they looked back at him and John couldn’t suppress an answering shiver of awe. 

 

“John,” he whispered, breath ghosting over his lips as they hovered just out out of reach.

 

“Sherlock,” he answered like a prayer. 

 

Sherlock dove back into him, sliding wet and messy lips over his own and John groaned heavily into the kiss. John’s hands began to roam, one discovering the planes of his back while pressing him close while the other slid down Sherlock’s side to cup his meaty thigh. An appreciative moan was poured into John’s mouth and, encouraged, John smoothed his hand over Sherlock’s hip to cup is beautifully scultped arse and bringing them flush together. 

 

The effect was immediate. Sherlock broke off the kiss with a keen and John chased his lips with a moan, hating every inch of distance between them. Their embrace snapped Sherlock into action and he, too, began to let his hands wander. They stroked over John’s strong pectorals, thumbs rubbing across his hardened nipples, making their presence known even through the two layers separating them. John bit his lip against the gasp he wanted to emit and hiked Sherlock’s thigh up, slotting his own between Sherlock’s. The change in positions had Sherlock crying out in delight as their erections rubbed together through the layers of fabric. 

 

John pumped experimentally, slowly grinding, loving each gasp that Sherlock let fall from his lips. He had wanted this, Sherlock vulnerable with him, Sherlock close, Sherlock open and trusting. He didn’t want to think about him bringing Sherlock back only to be married. He couldn’t picture never having this, Sherlock in his arms crying out from pleasure. His hips thrust more sharply, more precise and the leg Sherlock supported himself on began to buckle. 

 

“John, John, please, please I-”

 

“God, tell me, Sherlock-”

 

“I need, need you to-”

 

“Please, can I-”

 

“Where the hell have you two, oh Christ, sorry!” 

 

Greg’s voice popped the bubble of intimacy they had made for themselves, effectively killing the mood. Sherlock squeaked in surprise and pushed John back and off him. John stumbled and growled expletives under his breath. Before he had a chance to do anything more, Sherlock had pushed past him and practically ran back to camp. 

 

“Fuck, John, I’m so sorry,” Greg apologized.

 

“God, you’re a prick!”

 

“I’ll just go-”

 

“You think?!”

 

Without another word, Greg turned on his heel and followed Sherlock back to camp. But John was too worked up to follow just yet. As soon as Greg was out of earshot, John leaned against the tree that had previously had Sherlock against it and furiously worked his trousers open. His cock sprang forward into the coolness of the night and John hissed, wrapping his fist around himself. His cock was slick with precome, throbbing with need in his hand as he dragged his fist up and down quickly. He tried to picture Sherlock there, warm and solid beneath him, his hands on his shoulders, crying into his ear. Tried to picture the tightness of his thighs wrapped around him as they chased their climaxes together. In seconds, it was over and John was stuffing his empty fist into his mouth to stifle his cry as his orgasms took him full force. His body shuddered with the power of it and he slumped into the rough bark of the tree in front of him. 

 

He came back to himself painfully quick, aware of the mess on his hand and on the tree, the coolness of the air around him and the harsh thudding of the heart in his chest. He shook off the cooling spunk and carefully did up his trousers and walked back to camp. 

 

When he got there, John found a deeply embarrassed Greg tending the fire. He didn’t have to ask where Sherlock was. He knew Sherlock would be ensconced in their tent and John would not bother him just yet. First, he needed to wash his hands and cool down a bit. He dug into their pack and pulled out some water and rinsed his sticky hands before taking a large swallow himself. 

 

Quenched, he sat on the ground beside Greg. 

 

“So,” Greg stated, “you two figure it out, then?”

 

“Only a tiny bit,” John answered honestly. 

 

“Looked pretty chummy.”

 

“Until you came along, mucking it up.”

 

“To be fair,” Greg defended, stoking the fire, “you two had been gone almost an hour. I was worried.”

 

John nodded, not saying anything. He just stared into the fire, watching it dance and trying to figure out how to recover what they’d lost. Coming up empty he said, “I think it’s time to turn in.”

 

“Might be right,” Greg agreed. 

  
They checked the horses before banking the fire and then climbed into the tent, taking their respective positions. Sherlock had huddled into a ball impossibly small for a man so tall and John sighed, wishing that he would uncoil just enough to make it easier to hold him. But he knew it would be a moot point. So instead he leaned over and gave the man’s head a tender, lingering kiss before whispering, “goodnight, Sherlock,” and laying down for sleep. 


	8. Chapter 8

 

The next four days were a blur for John. Alternately, the time sped on without them and then trickled like sap in winter. 

 

During the day, time passed quicker than any of the previous days of their journey though he couldn’t quite say why. Sometimes it was because the dynamic between him and Sherlock had changed from tentative to, dare he say, romantic. The bickering was still there but now it was accompanied by fleeting glances under lashes, blushing, and an occasional kiss. Sometimes it was because they rode hard and fast when the path allowed and the speed of the horses carried the day away with them and before John knew it, they were setting up camp and settling down to sleep. 

 

At night, however, the time dragged to almost a standstill; a torture to John’s troubled mind. That first night after their passionate embrace against the tree, just after Sherlock’s confession of marriage, John awoke suddenly flooded with guilt and dread. His mind rudely reminded him that he had been keeping from Sherlock a crucial piece of information; the reason for Mycroft’s call.  Mycroft had told him that Sherlock was needed for a mission to take out Moriarty, the most dangerous wizard in several kingdoms over. A man who struck fear into the heart of every man who unluckily heard the stories. 

 

He laid awake that night, body still but mind reeling, thinking over every piece of information Mycroft had given him. He hadn’t mentioned Sherlock’s engagement at all. No word of “oh, and by the way, tell Sherlock his betrothed is still on for marrying him, despite being left to wait for two years”. No message of “you can tell him that his temper tantrum can be called off because the wedding has been called off”. 

 

He could just tell him the reason why Mycroft wanted him back. Just tell Sherlock that his brother wanted him for a dangerous quest, to bring down the most fearsome wizard in existence. Surely Sherlock would find that more agreeable than marriage, right? He wanted adventure, a chance to live before taking up the mantle of royalty for good. John could give him peace of mind. 

 

But what if that was just a ruse to get John to take the quest in the first place? A trick to get a washed up hero to bring back a stroppy member of court. 

 

But what if it was true? Would John be allowed to help him on the quest, keep him safe and ensure his safe return? 

 

But what if the quest was true  _ and _ his engagement was still valid? Would he be willing to go through the perils of a quest, getting closer and closer to Sherlock every day only to have to see him be passed off to someone else? Someone who didn’t really want him? Wouldn’t care for him as John did? 

Of course, he wouldn’t actually be allowed to witness the wedding in the first place. He was famous, true, but he wasn’t important enough to attend a royal wedding. He’d be back in the bottle, drinking away yet another love of his life as they got married to someone who was not him. 

 

Did John even love him? Of course he loved being with him; listening to his stories, squabbling with him, and having stolen tender moments in the dark of the night were all memories he would cherish his whole life. But were a few days in the woods enough to establish a lifetime of love? 

 

What if

What if

What if….

 

The questions plagued John at night when he should have been sleeping and he found himself drained in the morning rather than alert. The one upside of being awake before Sherlock on those mornings was that he could watch as Sherlock blinked away in the dim of dawn, could kiss him good morning and whisper a faint, happy “g’morning” into his hair.

 

They were a day or so from Posh-ville when John noticed they were being followed in the woods.  

 

Later, he would blame his lack of sleep for not being as alert as he should have been. He had let his guard down foolishly, traveling with Greg who was experienced and Sherlock who had put him at ease, plus his drowsiness all contributed to him missing the subtle sounds of pursuit and the shifting profiles behind the trees. His hackles rose, noting the shady figures, but It wasn’t until Sherlock shouted out to one of them, in particular, that any of them stepped forward into full view. 

 

“Wiggins! I see you there!” Sherlock smiled happily and pulled his horse to a halt before dropping down to his feet.

 

_ Some hero I am. That’s two groups of bandits sneaking up on us, _ John scolded himself as he watched the group of people spaced throughout the forest around him. He turned to Greg and said, “am I that out of practice?”

 

Greg shrugged. “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t notice them either until a few minutes ago. But you said nothing so I thought you had seen them, too, and were figuring out a plan of escape.”

 

“I was. Load of good I’m doing us,” John admitted. 

 

“Shezza! My favorite of friends,” Wiggins called back, stepping fully from the trees. When they were close enough, they embraced each other and John winced. Sherlock being so affectionate with someone was a shock to him; not that he’d had many chances to interact with people since they’d started out towards Posh-ville. Regardless, it seemed wrong to watch Sherlock hug anyone what wasn’t him. And who the hell was “Shezza” anyway? Ridiculous. 

 

“Wiggins you sly cur! I thought you were chased out of these parts long ago!”

 

“You’ve been away too long, friend. We were gone awhile but we’re back, stirring up trouble. Robbin’ the rich to feed the poor and all that rot.”

 

Sherlock let loose a genuine laugh of delight and hugged him close once more before swinging an arm around Wiggins’ neck to steer him towards his traveling companions. Beaming up at them, Sherlock introduced the man at his side. 

 

Gesturing up to the men on horses, Sherlock said, “Wiggins, this is Sir John Watson and his faithful squire Greg Lestrade. Gentlemen,” he said, placing a hand over Wiggins’ chest, “this is William Wiggins. Rogue, cad, gypsy, and all around scoundrel.”

 

“Come off it!,” Wiggins said with a hearty laugh, shoving Sherlock off him with a friendly push. “That can’t be the real Sir John! Not the ones from the stories?”

 

“He is indeed,” Sherlock declared.

 

“You know I  _ am _ right here,” John said, dejected at being talked about like he wasn’t even there. 

 

“You’re pullin’ my leg, you are! Sir John would never be caught dead with the likes o’you!”

 

John turned an exasperated eye on Greg and said, “I apologize for all the times I’ve talked at you like you’re a piece of furniture. It’s grating, to say the least.”

 

Greg shot him a gentle smile. “No offense taken, promise.”

 

“He is indeed,” Sherlock cried. “John! Come one, tell him who you are!”

 

“Oh now you notice me?”

 

Sherlock had the decency to smile apologetically before answering. “Forgive me for not treating my kidnappers with more respect.”

 

“Kidnappers?! Why didn’t you say so in the first place? Lads!” Wiggins drew his sword and made to cut John from his horse. More men rushed forward from the trees, battle cries spilling from their mouths and John felt his heart leap into his throat.  _ This is how I’m going to die. Brilliant, _ John thought gloomily. 

 

Sherlock dove in front of him, arms spread protectively in front of John’s horse, and said, “wait! Stop, stop! It’s not like that!”

 

Sword still in hand, Wiggins demanded, “explain?”

 

“Long story. Perhaps one better said with a bottle of wine and less steel?”

 

Wiggins darted a glance between the three men before reluctantly sheathing his weapon. Both John and Greg sagged visibly and Sherlock relaxed once more into the smiling youth he had been upon first greeting Wiggins. “Your devotion to my safety is well noted, old friend. But enough talk for now, all shall be revealed when mouths are less parched and tempers less hot. Lead the way! I’m sure you’ve picked a new spot and I confess, I’ve been away some time so I know not where you perch these days.”

 

Wiggins threw a protective arm across Sherlock’s shoulders and glared daggers at John. “Follow me, gents. Shezza, you’re walking with me. I want to hear all about what you’ve been doing. Camp’s not far.”

 

It turned out that once Sherlock explained their situation, Wiggins was more than happy to accommodate them for an evening. John and Greg stayed mostly quiet while Sherlock regaled the gypsies with the tale of their adventure, only offering commentary when prompted. Their near-scuffle forgotten and in no time at all, the trio were drinking steadily with the band of gypsies and playing games, singing songs, and dancing. 

 

John would be lying if he said he hadn’t enjoyed himself. They were treated as a member of the family, being served by the women of the camp and never left with a dry cup. The music started just as the sun began to dip on the horizon. Sherlock surprised his companions when he accepted the offer of a dance from the gypsies, quickly falling into step to the rhythmic drumming, fiddling, and singing that surrounded the fire. They stared open mouthed at his carefree behaviour until Sherlock twirled in their direction. 

 

“You know, it’s rude to stare, right?” He wiggled his fingers at them, beckoning them to join in. “Come on, don’t offend our hosts by fusing with the benches.” 

 

They took his hands and Greg was soon paired off with another woman while Sherlock showed John the steps. He was clumsy at first but a couple of songs in and he was getting the hang of it. Sherlock laughed as John’s feet worked out the steps and John could tell he was blushing though it was too dark to see. They danced for so long that John grew dizzy from the constant stamping, swirling, and jumping around. He had never been so athletic in dancing before and he broke out in a healthy sweat, clapping hands and whirling around Sherlock in passing steps. When he finally cried enough, he sat back into a bench gasping for breath.

 

“I had no idea dance could be so enthusiastic,” John confessed.

“Nor I until Wiggins came along,” Sherlock replied. 

 

“Just how did you come to know Wiggins, pray tell?”

 

“You may or may not have noticed this, but, I dislike being trapped in the palace. Don’t laugh, I know I’m being facetious. Anyway, I often would steal away from the castle dressed as a commoner, giving the guards a good chase and myself a much needed break from the tedium of the palace. On one such occasion about five years ago, I made my way to a horse show and promptly watched as Wiggins sold a defective horse. I pointed it out all the horses flaws to him after the sale was made and he had asked me why I hadn’t said anything to the buyer.”

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

Sherlock smiled at him and said, “I told him that if his buyer couldn’t see the obvious he deserved to be cheated. Wiggins just laughed and we ended up down at the camp drinking and dancing and from then on I made it a habit to visit Wiggins and his family whenever they had travelled by our kingdom. Gave them the lay of the land so they could move safely and stay out from under the  guards’ feet.”

 

John nodded, licking his dry lips. He was dying for a drink after all their exertion but was loathed to get up and end their conversation. Sherlock tracked the movement with his eyes and John tried to suppress a shudder when he recognized the want in his eyes. He wanted to lean in and wet his thirst in Sherlock’s kiss but the many eyes around them prevented him from reaching for what he wanted. Normally he wouldn’t be so shy but these people were unfamiliar and John was hesitant to show the depth of his affection to anyone, including Sherlock, just yet. 

 

He was saved from having to make a move by the appearance of a child bearing a fiddle. “Shezza, Shezza! Play for us?” He bounced on his heels and held out the instrument in clear demand. 

 

Sherlock smiled at him and took the fiddle and said, “I will if you go run and get us some water Alexi.”

 

The child nodded and dashed off. John’s mouth fell open in surprise. “You know how to play?”

 

Sherlock ducked his head shyly and said, “I learned from them. My family indulged me bringing an instrument home. They counted it as one more of my “eccentricities”. But I love it just as much as riding horses or performing alchemy.”

 

The child came back with two large, overflowing mugs of water and they accepted gratefully. “Will you play now? Pleeeease, Shezza!” 

 

Sherlock laughed and pat the child on his head. “Of course, Alexi.”

John sat back and watched as Sherlock took up a spot next to the other musicians and began sawing away with quick, nimble fingers. The music climbed ever faster and the dancers mirrored the movement of Sherlock’s fingers, twirling out and crying out chants back and forth. The high pitched notes soared over everyone and carried an energetic fervor into the night. John watched, transfixed on Sherlock’s movements as he, too, swayed to the music he produced. 

 

After four songs, however, he tired and bid leave to rest. The musicians cried out for more but he deftly begged for leave and they let him go. But they were not left alone because as soon as he found John again, Wiggins and Greg and several girls came over and demanded they play a drinking game with them. 

 

The game was simple: tell one truth and one lie and everyone else had to guess which was which. If you guessed wrong, you drink. If you guessed right, the speaker drinks. It was a marvelous game, one that required creativity and an ability to read the people with whom you played. John thought he did rather well, considering he didn’t know the group all that well. 

 

When it was his turn he said, “alright. First story is that when I was eleven I caught a trout but it was stolen by a bear. Second story, I learned how to cook with my sister at my mother’s instruction.” Most of the people said that he lied about the cooking and John took great satisfaction of proving them wrong. “I can make a mean meat pie, in case anyone was wondering,” he chuckled as those who guessed wrong groaned and drained their cups. He didn’t hide his pleasure that Sherlock had guessed correctly. 

 

Greg shared his stories next. “I once kissed a pig, thinking it was a pretty young lass. Or, did I once fall out of a tree and twist my ankle til it was purple?” When everyone guessed the ankle, Greg laughed heartily and said, “it was the little piggy, I’m afraid.”

 

“How could you confuse a pig for a girl,” Sherlock asked, aghast.

 

Greg shrugged and said, “ever been to Westingshire? All they do is pig farming, they all smell like em. Couple lads blindfolded me for a kissing game and put a pig before me instead of a girl. Not that I minded much.”  Everyone guffawed so hard that many of them choked on their ale. 

 

Sherlock’s turn came next and he thought hard for a moment before making and “aha” face and grinning mightily. “I once climbed onto the roof of the palace because I wanted to see what birds see so high up. Or perhaps, I caused a fire in the stables on accident because I was curious about flammable compounds.”

 

“Oh that’s not fair,” Wiggins complained. “Knowing you, either could be true!”

 

“Isn’t that the point of the game, though?”

 

John was divided. He knew that Sherlock was curious and therefore could have done either. But then he thought back to his love of horses and decided against stable fires. He would never have put his horses at risk. He was the only one to choose the rooftops. And was correct.

 

“As if I would put my horses in danger, really, you don’t know me at all!” Sherlock teased Wiggins mercilessly but, when no one was watching, he shot John a look that bordered on awe. John’s mind whirled with all the different possibilities that could be beneath that look. 

 

Several rounds, and several cups, later the players parted ways in twos and threes to dance or play their own private games. Greg walked off with Wiggins in search of more good ale, leaving Sherlock and John alone for the first time in hours. The two shared a look that made the space between them seem both far too small and far too great. The drink made them both sway with the happy, heavy feeling of inebriation. 

 

“Would you like to play another game,” John asked.

 

Sherlock looked at him thoughtfully and said, “depends on the game.”

 

“This one is more of a getting to know you game. First, we cast “rock, paper, or scissors” to see who wins. But, the loser must say something new about themselves or a secret that they’ve never told anyone before.”

 

Sherlock, confused, asked, “but if it’s a secret then why would you tell someone? Isn’t the point not to tell someone?”

 

“It doesn’t have to be a big secret. Or...we don’t have to play-”

 

“No! I-” Sherlock swallowed thickly and said, “I want to play with you.”

 

John nodded and said, “let’s go fill our mugs again. Then we can find a quieter place to sit and play.”

 

After refilling their mugs, the pair walked to a find quiet spot just out of the thrumm of the music. The relative quiet felt like a comforting blanket, wrapping around them to shield them from the rest of the world. They found a small creek that had large, flat rocks perfect for sitting on and so they pounced on them. The rock was cool and solid beneath John as he climbed atop it but Sherlock was warm and soft as he settled next to him, sharing the space. Sherlock’s shifting warmth next to him beckoned to him, called for him to lean against him. But John felt the pull of temptation and decided against it. Bad enough that they slept and woke together, torturing John’s heart every time he woke to find Sherlock wrapped in his arms and knowing he couldn’t keep him. 

 

Instead, they pressed their backs against the tall rocks behind them and settled in and began their game. 

 

“Ready?” Sherlock nodded and they shook their fists once, twice, and on the third time they threw their choices. Sherlock had rock, John had scissors. John grinned and said, “okay, I guess I’ll go first.” His mind drew a blank and he asked Sherlock, “what do you want to know?”

 

“Is- is that how the game is played?” 

 

John shrugged. “It’s not set in stone. What do you want to know of me?”

 

Sherlock asked, “did you ever have a pet?”

 

John shook his head. “We never could afford a pet. Wanted a dog, though. I like dogs.”

 

“Me too,” Sherlock confided. “Again, then?”

 

John nodded and they shot again. Sherlock lost, paper to scissors. “What do you want to know, John?”

 

_ So many things, _ he said silently. Out loud he said, “if you could be any animal what would it be?”

 

Sherlock giggled and said, “a horse. Proud creatures and so smart.”

 

“And pretty,” John added.

 

“Well, yes, of course that too.”

 

They laughed and shot again and again until questions became secrets. John confessed that he had stolen things in his youth to feed his sister after their mother died. Sherlock confessed he wished he had not been born royalty. They shared embarrassing tidbits from their childhood that soon had them laughing, heads bowing closer to one another when all of a sudden it seemed like all the air in the world had vanished. John’s breath was gone and he stared at Sherlock as if he hung the moon. John knew then and there that he loved the man. It was inevitable, after their journey and their game, knowing too much to not be enchanted. 

 

The man had stolen his heart and he didn’t know. John wasn’t sure he should ever know. He was betrothed to someone who was a much better match for him, all things considered. Irene was rich, powerful, and John was certain she was more attractive and smarter. She would be able to give him so much, even if she never gave him her heart. 

 

John would give his heart for Sherlock. All he need to was reach out with it in his palm and offer it. But would Sherlock truly want him? Or just anyone that wasn’t Irene? Would he really want John’s heart, body, and soul just because he wasn’t trapped in an arranged marriage? Did Sherlock love him in return? Was it crazy to hope for something like love so soon? 

 

He found himself staring and unable to stop. He leaned in close enough to feel Sherlock’s breath play against his lips and he swallowed a whimper of need.  _ You’ve had too much to drink, Watson. You’re getting ahead of yourself, _ he warned.  _ A few kisses mean nothing, he’s still spoken for _ . 

 

And so he paused, hovering just above what he wanted. 

 

Sherlock asked softly, “should we go again?”

 

“If you like.”

 

Slowly, distracted, they threw fists again. John lost. Sherlock asked, “who was your first kiss?”

 

“A girl named Molly. She was the baker’s daughter and I kissed her under the mistletoe at Yule when I was eleven.”

 

Sherlock nodded then held up his fist for another go. He lost the next round and John asked him about his first kiss in return. “It was Irene when I was seven. I wanted to know what everyone was so fussy about so when our governess’s back was turned I kissed her. She laughed and wiped her lips and ran off to play without me.” He smiled shyly and said, “can’t say I enjoyed the kiss either. I didn’t do it after that.”

 

John blinked in surprise. “With anyone?” Then the gravity of the confession fell on him and he asked, “you didn’t kiss anyone else before me?”

 

Sherlock nodded, averting his gaze and taking a swallow of beer to cover his flushing cheeks. Curious and petrified, John was about to ask the question bursting on his tongue when Sherlock held up his fist, a silent plea for him to only ask if he won. They shot once more and Sherlock lost. John immediately asked, “Sherlock, have you ever slept with anyone?”

 

Avoiding John’s eyes, Sherlock looked off at the stream and said, “I sleep next to you every night, John.”

 

“I mean-”

 

“I know what you mean,” Sherlock said without any real bite. 

 

“Have you?”

 

Sherlock finally turned his eyes back to John and said, “no.”

 

“Have you ever wanted to?”

 

“Nn- not until recently,” Sherlock admitted. “I didn’t see the point, being trapped in a loveless marriage and no one being interesting enough to abandon my studies for.”

 

“What changed,” John asked, breathless, even though he hoped, prayed for the answer to be him. He just wanted,  _ needed _ , to hear it from Sherlock’s lips. 

 

“You, John. You came and changed everything. I-” Sherlock cut himself off, shaking his head before draining his mug with a grimace. He set it down and said, “if I’m to go home tomorrow, my life already sold to someone else, I want-,” he laid a hand on John’s thigh as if to ground himself and impress on John the severity of his confession. “If tonight is my last night of freedom then I want to do something for myself before it’s too late.”

 

John knew what he was asking. The gossamer had been pulled away and John could deny it no more: Sherlock wanted him just as much as John wanted him in return. The evidence piled on him all at once and John felt smothered underneath it in the most fantastic way. All the fleeting glances, casual touches, small kisses, Sherlock’s rescuing him, putting their trust in each other with their pasts, the desperate embrace against the tree, dancing in the firelight…

 

John couldn’t hold back longer. He pressed forward and kissed Sherlock’s full lips with an undisguised moan of want. Sherlock answered it with one of his own and his hands found a home on either side of John’s head. Sherlock took him by surprise by breaking their kiss to straddle John’s thighs, pressing their chests together as intimately as possible whilst still clothed. John’s groan of need poured into Sherlock’s mouth and Sherlock licked at it with an eager tongue, keening as John’s hands cupped his firm buttocks, rucking him impossibly closer. Sherlock’s thighs squeezed in as tight as they could while he practically writhed atop John. John felt electricity zing along his nerves with every movement of fingers and tongues, his cock hardening and begging to be touched. A subtle shift brought blessed friction to them both and they shivered and moaned aloud with pleasure. 

 

“God, Sherlock,” John groaned, biting the man’s lip, tasting his need. 

 

“John,” Sherlock growled, “I want it to be you.” In between lingering kisses he said, “I want to give myself to you.” Another rough, wet kiss, “even if it’s just for tonight. Please give me that, John?  _ Please _ ?”

 

Sherlock’s pleading made him shiver and tremble beneath him. He wanted to give Sherlock everything, wanted to take him apart and put him back together and whisper the three heaviest words he possessed into his skin. Wanted to disappear with Sherlock and carve out a world for just the two of them where he could keep him forever in his arms. He pulled away from the kisses he craved so much to look Sherlock in the eye. 

 

There was longing, lust and affection; but underneath all that was fear. His eyes darted across John’s face, shiny from emotion. The presence of fear is what gave him pause. The realization of where they were, out in the woods against a rough rock on the outskirts of a gypsy camp, likely to be stumbled upon any moment. Then came the remembrance of their stations, he a knight and Sherlock a member of a royal family. Lastly, John was free and Sherlock was not. 

 

He had never cared before. He had bedded wives with less than caring husbands. He had willingly tumbled with lads without asking their marital status. He had gleefully accepted a drunken embrace and let it lead him to more amorous activities. He had given over to pleasure when all that mattered was that one night and nothing would be spoken of in the morning and feelings were no more weighty than a wish for fun for a night. 

 

Sherlock was, always had been, different. 

 

John couldn’t take from Sherlock something so precious when they were both drowning in liquor in the heart of the forest. He deserved a proper, plush bed, to have time taken to completely remove his anxieties and turn them into pleasure. He deserved to be loved like the treasure he was. 

 

Then and there, he decided he would do anything, take on any test and face any foe, to prove himself worthy of Sherlock. He would not muddy him in a shameful roll against the stones like an animal in rut. As much as he scoffed at the phrase, he would make love to Sherlock some day. 

 

But not this day. 

 

It was the hardest thing he had ever done, holding Sherlock’s face and kissing him once, gently before telling him, “we can’t. Not here.”

 

“What?” Confusion and hurt shone in his eyes and it broke John’s heart to be the cause of it. 

 

“You deserve better,” John insisted. “You deserve everything-”

 

“But John! You  _ are _ everything!” His lower lip trembled. “To me you are everything.”

 

John’s throat clenched tight, wanting to believe that it was true. Because Sherlock, without even trying, had suddenly become everything to him as well. John shifted, ignoring his pressing erection, and put a hand on Sherlock’s chest to give each other some distance. Sherlock looked on him as if betrayed and John forced his voice to be even. “I want to be everything for you, Sherlock.” He took both Sherlock’s hands in his own and kissed them gently, looking up through his lashes at him. “I want to make love to you, to give you all the tenderness you deserve-”

 

“Sod all that,” Sherlock insisted. “This is my life, my body and I am giving it to you! You didn’t seem to care before, what’s changed?” His voice grew angry and he hastily growled, “four days ago you were ready to have me standing against a tree. Here we are, still in the woods, alone, and you’re telling me that this isn’t enough for you?”

 

“I’m saying that you’re too important-”

 

“Bollocks,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth. “There’s something else. Something you’re not telling me.”

 

_ I love you, _ John wanted to say. But he didn’t think it would make any difference. Sherlock might think he was just trying to placate him. Sherlock would accept nothing less than right then and there and nothing other than John’s acceptance would do. But the mood had already shifted, the chance gone as fast as it came and John mourned it.  _ What if that was all you were ever going to get, _ John wailed internally. 

 

“I’m sorry,” John said earnestly. 

 

“Right.” Tight-lipped, Sherlock slid off him and stomped off without him.  

 

When John got back to camp he peaked back the flaps of their tent to find it empty. Panic coursed through him and he began walking, searching for Sherlock and Greg, hoping that Greg had spotted their charge. He didn’t find either of them but he did run into a very drunk Wiggins.

 

“Oh, thank god, Wiggins! Have you seen Greg or Sher- uh, Shezza?”

 

Wiggins scowled at him. Clearly, he had seen Sherlock. He jabbed a thumb off towards a wagon a few meters away and said, “Greg’s off in my bunk, sleepin’ off a mighty hangover. Shezza,” he said pointedly, “is not your concern tonight. He’s taken care of.”

 

Panic threatened to choke him. What if Sherlock decided not to see him again? What if he decided that he would rather find his way among the gypsies instead of going home to fight Moriarty or marry Irene or whatever god knew else Mycroft had in store for him in Posh-ville? His heart thumped like a rabbit, the desperate need to see Sherlock pushing at him. 

 

“Please tell me where he is? I need to tell him-”

 

“Whatever you have to say, it can wait until the morning.” Wiggins saw the distress on him and took a little pity on him. “He said you two had an argument and he needed time to think. He’s safe. He’ll be ready to go back home tomorrow, as planned.”

 

At John’s silence, Wiggins added. “Look, I’ve heard the stories. We all have. We know you’ve done some great things. And you’re probably a good guy.” He shot him a dubious glance at that but went on. “But right now, you’re the guy who hurt my friend. If I were you, I’d leave him be. Whatever happened, it’ll keep.” 

 

_ That will have to be enough, _ John thought bitterly. He nodded his thanks and took off towards his tent. The space, normally cramped with three men now seemed too large. He would drown in the space left by the other men and the sorrow threatened to eat him alive. He wished that Sherlock had not run off without him, had not hid from him. He wished that he had been articulate enough to express to Sherlock what he felt. He cursed his clumsy thoughts and crawled into bed roll, tugging the covers tightly around him. 

  
For the first time in weeks, his sleep was cold. 


	9. Chapter 9

When John awoke to the cold light of dawn it was with a frown and overhanging cloud of general misery. His body ached from weeks of being on the road and sleeping on the ground. His head pounded from excessive drinking, only having himself to blame since he knew better to be doing so at his age. His heart hurt, memories of the argument from the night before that had left him disheartened and pitiable. As he slowly wakened, other minor bodily complaints made themselves known; full bladder, empty stomach, cold and stiff limbs, get up get up get up. 

 

With a groan, John shifted his way out of the tent and made his way behind a tree to solve the easiest of his body’s ails. Clumsy fingers fumbled with the ties of his pants and he wished, for not the first time, that pants were easier to operate after a night of negligent drinking. Bladder, spent, he went off in search of a solution to the second easiest problem he had. He smelled bacon cooking and could hear the stirrings of the camp greeting the day. The image of Sherlock smiling and chatting amiably with the gypsies only to flatten into a cold look at the sight of him made John rethink attending the campfire just yet. If Sherlock had found any solace in their parting, he would not ruin it just yet. 

 

Instead of seeking out company at the campfire, John made his way to the makeshift hitch posts where all the horses had been left for the night so he could rummage for something to fill his stomach. Finding his mare, he dipped into his pouch for two apples and a hunk of hardened bread. He picked off the lint before sticking it in his mouth and feeding his mare one of the apples. 

 

“There’s a girl,” he crooned at her, stroking her mane as she chomped on the apple, juice sliding down her lips. She nuzzled at his hand, hoping he’d give up the second apple but he only smiled and moved it out of her reach. He kissed her head and said, “only one, you greedy thing.” 

 

He sank down to the ground, back against the hitch post as he ate his meagre breakfast. It wasn’t much, but he didn’t feel up to eating much anyway. Between his leftover emotions and the aftermath of drinking, his stomach was fit to turn and John didn’t want to give it more ammunition than was necessary to get through the day. His mare, sensing his sorrow, lipped at his hair, whuffing softly at him as if to ask  _ what’s wrong? _ He smiled, despite himself. He cradled her large head in his hands and touched his forehead to her long face, stroking her cheek. 

 

“Rosie, gal, I think I’ve fucked up.”

 

A voice behind him agreed. “I should think so.”

 

His heart about leapt from his mouth at the sudden intrusion of his private misery. He jumped so hard that his head connected to the wood of the post, a flare of pain blooming on the back of his head. “Shit! Fuck,” he grumbled, rubbing the back of his head. “What the hell, Greg? I’m going to tie a bloody bell around your neck.”

“Sorry, John,” Greg said sincerely. He walked to stand next to the horse, looking down at John sitting in the dirt. “I saw Sherlock this morning.”

 

“Where?”

 

“In Wiggins’ cabin. He stowed away in the extra cot last night. Which makes me beg the question,” Greg prefaced before crouching down to eye level with John, “what happened last night? You had the perfect opportunity to make use of the tent and yet Sherlock woke up with me instead of you.”

 

John closed his eyes, not wanting to admit the real reason for their argument. It seemed unfair to reveal his love of Sherlock to Greg first, rather than the man himself. He felt weak for not taking what was offered instead of hoping for a more appropriate setting that might never occur. But most of all, he felt guilty for not giving Sherlock what he wanted so badly. Really, who was he to complain about circumstances when Sherlock was about to be trapped, one way or another, while John would be free to roam and love as he pleased. It was all dreadfully unfair and he was a coward. 

 

So instead of the full truth, John settled for half of it. “We had an argument.”

 

Greg snorted in amusement. “Well, that much is obvious. What about?”

 

“He didn’t tell you?”

 

Greg shook his head. “This may come as a surprise to you but people don’t often confide in me, John. Which is really a shame because I’m incredibly insightful.”

 

John tilted his head, humoring him. “Is that so?”

 

“Even if it weren’t for me walking in on that torrid display the other night-”

 

“Greg,” John interrupted warningly.

 

“I see how you two eye each other when you think the other isn’t looking. You look at him as if he were the sun, beautiful and unobtainable. He does the same. And now, last night, you sleep alone when you should have been defiling that tent of ours beyond redemption. That’s unlike you, John. What’s the problem?”

 

“Since when are you so concerned with when, where, and who I sleep with?”

 

“Since we got chased out of that dairy farmer’s barn that one time.”

 

John’s laugh was torn unexpectedly out of him at the memory. “Yeah, he was a delight. That wife on the other hand…”

 

“Exactly. It’s a matter of safety. My job security included.” They chuckled briefly before growing serious once more. “There’s something up, John. Tell me.”

 

John sighed, defeated. Though he still wouldn’t give voice to his love, he had always found it easy to be open with Greg. He had always trusted him and this would be no exception. He hung his head, averting his gaze from his squire’s and said to his feet, “he’s betrothed, Greg.”

 

“Is that all? That’s never stopped you before.”

 

Slowly, John dragged his eyes to Greg’s and silently begged the man to understand. They had been together for so long, had known each other so well that he hoped he wouldn’t have to vocally elaborate. He let all his haggard pain show in his eyes and at Greg’s sharp intake of breath, John knew he understood. 

 

“But...how?”

 

John shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

 

“And you’re bringing him home to his brother so he can get married?”

 

“And stop a crazy wizard, let’s not forget.”

 

“Oh, beg pardon for that little slip,” Greg joked dryly. “Does he know?”

 

“Christ no.” Then he thought about the question. “Wait, about how I feel or the Moriarty thing?”

 

“Either and/or both.”

 

“Christ no.”

 

“You’re an idiot.”

 

John smiled self deprecatingly. “So I hear.” 

 

“Are you going to tell him? About either?”

 

John shook his head. “With Moriarty, that’s not my place. That’s not what we were paid to do. Prepping for a quest is not on the itinerary.”

 

Greg persisted. “And the lo-”

“Shut it!” John said harshly, not wanting the words to fall even from Greg’s mouth. His features deflated into an air of utter sadness and he buried his face in his hands, forearms resting atop his knees. “I rejected him last night,” John said plainly. “He threw himself at me, asking me to-,” he began, choking on all the words he could use to describe the event; take him, fuck him,  _ love _ him. He shook his head, not bothering to finish the thought out loud and continued, “I told him no. He said he was giving himself to me and I told him that we should wait. But I don’t know if we’ll ever get another chance and I’ve bollocksed it up by rejecting him and now he’s mad at me and we’re so close to Posh-ville and I might never see him again!”

 

The reality of the situation made panic bubble in the bottom of his stomach and he added, “I don’t know how to fix this.”

 

Greg gave him a sympathetic look. “Who knows if you can. But you need to face him eventually.” He stood from his crouch and held out a hand to help John up. Once they stood face to face he said, “let’s not panic until we get the lay of the land. And if there’s nothing to be done, the good news is that there’s just under a day’s ride to Posh-ville left. You need not suffer in his presence for long.”

 

John snorted mirthlessly. “That’s so comforting, Greg.”

 

Greg slung an arm around John’s shoulders and steered him towards their tent to pack up. “That’s what I’m here for.” 

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

Sherlock greeted the two men with a chilly gaze that would could wither flowers. All of John’s hopes for making up quickly turned to ash on his tongue and, rather than exacerbate their last few hours together, he silently helped Greg pack them up. Less than an hour after daybreak, the trio was seated on their horses and riding off into the homestretch of their journey. 

 

The day dragged endlessly. The silence between them the most uncomfortable since beginning their journey, the drugging incident included. John felt so downtrodden that even his horse slackened her pace in sympathy. He wanted for their journey to be over so he wouldn’t wallow in misery any longer. And yet he wished he had a few days more so that he could possibly find a way to soothe Sherlock’s anger with him. But, regardless of how he felt and what he wished for, the day carried them all the way to the gates of Posh-ville just as the sun was beginning to set. 

 

The large city loomed in front of them as they rode up to it and they voiced their opinion simultaneously.

 

“It’s massive-”

 

“It’s amazing-”

 

“It’s oppressive-”

 

John and Greg both turned to Sherlock, who scowled at the city, and eyed him with a mixture of sympathy and concern. He caught them staring and spurred his horse ahead of them, calling back to them, “let’s get this over with.”

 

As soon as they reached the gates, they were greeted by a jeering, female voice from the top of the guard tower.

 

“Oi, freak! Where the hell have you been?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned deeply in disgust. “Captain Sally Donovan. I see they haven’t revoked your title yet.”

 

A hearty laugh answered the comment and a moment later, a woman clad in armor, carrying a helmet under her arm sauntered out from the guard tower. She wore a predatory grin and was accompanied by two men a few paces behind her. She stopped just in front of Sherlock’s horse and dropped to her knee, “welcome home, Your Majesty.”

 

Sherlock’s eyes rolled so far into the back of his head John for half a second worried they’d get stuck there. “For God’s sake, Donovan, I haven’t been back five minutes. Stop grating on my already aggravated nerves.” He flicked his gaze to the other two guards and sneered. “Anderson. Dimmock. Clearly nothing’s changed since I’ve been away.”

 

Donovan rose and punched her gauntlet covered fist into Anderson’s shoulder. “You owe me a keg, Anderson. You said he’d gotten himself killed when he hared off to God knows where.”

 

Anderson scoffed. “He has yet to make it home. There’s still time.”

 

John’s hackles rose at the thinly veiled threat but Greg put a steadying hand on his shoulder, sobering him. He cleared his voice and introduced himself. “Captain Donovan, I am Sir John Watson and this is my squire Greg Lestrade. We’ve brought the Prince Sherlock Holmes here to see his brother, Crowned Prince Mycroft Holmes.”

 

Donovan quirked an eyebrow at him before directing her amused gaze at Sherlock. She jerked a thumb at John and said, “he always this formal?”

 

Sherlock shrugged. “Only when he’s irritated or making a spectacle of himself.”

 

“Oi,” John interjected only to be cut off by Sherlock.

 

“Do lead on, Captain. Time to go see mummy dearest and that brother of mine.”

“As you wish, Your Majesty,” Donovan acquiesced, leading them into the city. 

 

John took in the sights of Posh-ville through new eyes. He had been there before, albeit under different circumstances. But now that he knew this is where Sherlock lived. This is where he came from and John took it all in, trying to better understand the man he was about to leave on his front doorstep. He supposed it was like any other big city. You could smell food from cooking stalls as the nightlife of the city awoke. You could hear couples arguing in their homes and children giggling as they raced home for dinner. You still had road dust rise up to meet you and the putrid smells of the alleys wafted on the breeze same as any other city. And yet, it was all new because this was the side of the city Sherlock desperately wanted to be a part of; not the gilded cage he had been born in. 

 

It didn’t take them long to get to the palace but by the time they did, the lamps on the streets were lit and the sun had slipped beyond the horizon. When they arrived, they were greeted by the palace guards and Mycroft himself. He stood in front of his men in the courtyard, a fond smile on his face. John flicked his eyes to Sherlock to find him resigned, lingering traces of anger around his lips. He wished his could smooth those away with kind words and soft kisses but that wish was washed away as soon as it came. Sherlock would soon be gone, married, and forget all about him. 

 

They all dismounted and their horses were taken to the stables while the two parties greeted each other. 

 

“Welcome home, brother mine,” Mycroft said with a smile. 

 

“You’ve gotten fat,” Sherlock said, nose tilting up into the air haughtily.

 

Mycroft chuckled. “Glad to see your little nap hasn’t changed much about your personality. I did wonder.” He gestured for Sherlock to head inside and said, “your room has been made up and as soon as word of your arrival came to me I had the kitchens begin preparing water for a bath. You greet mummy and father tomorrow morning.” 

 

Mycroft then looked at John and Greg, addressing them directly. “John Watson and Gregory Lestrade, our hero of the hour and his faithful right hand man. You shall be rewarded handsomely for your efforts to bring my brother safely home. We have made up rooms for you and your squire so you might rest the night here before you leave in the morning.”

 

Knowing a dismissal when he heard one. John nodded once, bowing to the two royals. Straightening, he said to Mycroft, “it’s been an honor serving you, My Lord.” Then to Sherlock, softer, he said, “and it was my pleasure to guide you home.” 

 

Sherlock’s eyes misted over briefly before his mask of indifference returned and he strode away into the palace without a word of goodbye to John or Greg. He wished he could say it didn’t hurt. But it did and John swallowed back a grimace of pain as he was led away to his room by the palace servants. 

 

There was a cot made up for Greg in the servant’s quarters and he was promised a bath and a hot meal while John was directed to the guest wing. There he was also promised a bath and meal. After being shown to his room, he wrote out a quick letter of instruction for the servant to deliver to Greg before settling in for the evening. As much as he detested the idea of being alone that night, he realized it was selfish of him to ask Greg to stay with him. The man had put up with so much over the weeks of their journey and still had many days before they reached their home. He deserved a night off to do as he pleased. 

 

As was promised, not long after he was left in his room, a large metal tub was delivered along with several servants carrying buckets of water to fill it. The water was steaming hot and he was offered soaps scented with oils to wash with. 

 

“When you’re done, just call for us using the bell,” a male servant said, pointing to a cord on the wall. “We’ll come and take the water and bring you some food. Would you like anything in particular? Some tea as well?”

 

John nodded, sitting on the bed to take off his boots. “Tea would be lovely, thank you. And any hot food would be good. But tea for sure.”

 

“Of course, Sir.” 

 

In a moment the servants were gone and he was left alone with his thoughts. He undressed, marveling at such a large bathing tub. He had never seen one so large and was equal parts elated and confused at the gesture extended to him. On the one hand, he had never before been able to submerge himself fully in a tub and would take great pleasure in doing so, pampering himself for once. On the other hand, this was clearly an expensive piece of furniture, one that should have been reserved for fine guests unlike himself. He puzzled over it until he slipped beneath the scented water where all his concerns melted away. For the time being, anyway. 

 

He sighed deeply, letting the near scalding water wash him clean of everything. The road dust turned the water a scummy, pale brown but John didn’t care. He cleaned himself quickly before settling back against the high back of the tub and letting his sore muscles rest and soak. The steam curled into his nose, causing his brow to sweat. His thoughts came slower and slower until he was so relaxed he nearly fell asleep. Only when the water was uncomfortably cool, did he get out to dress and call for supper. 

 

In the time it took for him to change into comfortable, clean clothes, food arrived in the form of roast boar and vegetables, tea, and a small slice of carrot cake with icing. The appearance of dessert gave him pause and he asked, “does everyone staying at Mycroft’s pleasure get dessert?”

 

“The Prince was very specific that you should be fed well,” he replied, not quite answering John’s question. The serving girl left him with his tray and John tucked in, stomach empty and appetite returned with a vengeance. 

 

While he ate, his eyes took in the room he was allotted with attention that was lacking while he bathed. The room was not a large one, in comparison to other rooms one might find in a palace, but it was certainly larger than he was used to occupying. The bed was a kingsized one on a sturdy, hardwood frame covered in heavy quilts that made John wonder if he could possibly join Mycroft’s staff for the winter season; the covers looked warmer than the ones he had at home. He had a window that looked out over the stables and he could hear the changing of the guard while he ate. A fireplace was carved into the wall opposite his bed and above it hung a painting of a truly ugly bulldog. John found himself strangely fond of it. 

 

After eating his fill, the weeks of travel and emotional turmoil took their toll on him. He felt like a giant loser for deciding to call it an early night, rather than going down to find a pub or something, but he also knew he wouldn’t be good company. Now that the comfortable curtain of the steamy bath had lifted, his tortured thoughts returned and he felt miserable once more.  _ Well, you’ll be gone soon enough, _ John consoled himself as he began to strip and ready himself for bed. 

 

Shirt and trousers ditched, he was elbow deep in his bags searching for his nightshirt when he decided to say fuck it and sleep in his small clothes. The night was warm and John didn’t feel like digging around for more clothes. He probably should have felt perverted, sleeping near naked in such a fancy bed alone, but he didn’t care. If he couldn’t sleep in Sherlock’s arms then he would let the bed embrace him as he fell asleep.

 

_ And isn’t that a sad, pathetic thought _ , he chided internally. 

 

“Jesus,” John whispered to the empty room as he slid between the sheets. The mattress was so cushiony that John sank several centimeters into its plushness. He felt enveloped, cradled, comforted as the mattress conformed around him as it supported him. “I could get used to this.” He only wished Sherlock could be there to wrap around, adding to his comfort. Resigning himself to sleeping alone, again, John forced his body to relax and closed his eyes. In a matter of minutes, he fell asleep. 

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

John was startled awake by the sound of his door banging open. He immediately lurched awake, grabbing the nearest thing to him in his fist, standing atop the bed to attack his intruder.

 

“That stance would be much more menacing if you weren’t brandishing a pillow,” a low, silky, angry voice called to him.

 

Eyes that were still adjusting to being wrenched from sleep blinked furiously in John’s head. The voice was attached to a dark silhouette that stood in his doorway, breathing heavily. It took a minute for his eyes to focus, for them to adjust to the dim light spilling into the room from the sconces in the hallway, but when they did he sank in relieved annoyance. 

 

John relaxed, tossing his pillow back onto the bed, dropping back into the plush mattress and burrowing into the warm cocoon of his borrowed bed. “What in God’s name do you want, Sherlock?”

 

Sherlock slammed the door, making John jump once more before resettling into the mattress. He stomped over to John’s bed and said, “I want you to explain yourself?”

 

John peeked an eye open at him. “For what, exactly?”

 

“For why I just spent two weeks traveling with you and you neglected to tell me, at any point, what my brother wanted of me!”

 

John sighed and rolled onto his back so he could sit up. “So he told you about Moriarty.”

 

“He did, indeed.” Sherlock was furious. “Why didn’t you tell me?!”

 

“Would it have made a difference? Would you have come with us willingly if I had?”

 

“No!”

 

“Then I don’t see the problem, here.” John shuffled to get out of bed, irritated that it seemed every “last” interaction he would get with Sherlock would be at turns angry, tense, and uncomfortable.

 

“What would you like me to say,” he asked, rising to his feet. “‘I’m sorry I didn’t play messenger boy between you and your brother whilst kidnapping you’? Is that what you want to hear? Fine. I’m sorry.” He was losing patience, angry with their situation. He wanted nothing more to fix things, to take Sherlock in his arms and comfort him, to kiss him, to sleep beside him, to beg to be let in on the quest Sherlock had been undoubtedly asked to undertake. But instead, knowing he would be denied all he wanted, he lashed out hoping to land a hit. “I’m sorry I woke you. I’m sorry I slept beside you every night.” His voice raised with every declaration, anger rising even if he didn’t mean a word of it. “I’m sorry I woke with you in my arms every morning! I’m sorry I kissed you and held you! I’m sorry I didn’t see it was my place to play messenger between two spoiled, royal brats who-”

 

“You didn’t see that it was your place! Oh, ho! I see!” Sherlock began pacing and gesticulating wildly in his displeasure. “You didn’t think it was your place?! Not your place to tell me what I was being woken up for, but it was your place to drag me, literally kicking and screaming-”

 

“You were drugged you weren’t even awake-”

 

“ _ And _ it was your place to drag me through the forest without my permission! Your place to get me kidnapped,  _ again _ , by bandits so that I’d have to save your sorry arse! You thought it was your place to kiss me and make me fall in love with you-”

 

John’s heart stopped, his body froze, eyes and jaw stuck open in surprise. “Wait, what?”

 

Sherlock seemed, a fraction too late, to realize what he had just said and stammered, trying to recover. “I...I mean-”

 

“No!” John stretched out his hand, trying to stop Sherlock from retreating. “Don’t do that, don’t take it back.” He swallowed thickly, trembling with emotion. “Sherlock, did,” he licked his lips nervously, “did you mean it?”

 

Silence filled up the small space between them until, slowly and soundlessly, he nodded. True, genuine relief flooded through John and he couldn’t contain himself. He reached up to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him close for a desperate kiss. They surged together, clawing at each other, gasping into each other’s mouths until they were forced by necessity to come up for air. 

 

In the dim light of the moon that filtered in through the window, Sherlock’s eyes found his and he whispered, hope ringing in his voice, “John?”

  
“I love you too,” John said, answering the unspoken question in Sherlock’s utterance of his name. At John’s confirmation, Sherlock melted into him, kissing John deeply, licking into his mouth to pull out moans of satisfaction. He was a bee at a flower, a hummingbird at nectar, drinking from John with just as much fervor. John pulled back briefly to drive home his feelings by whispering once more, “I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” before wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist, bringing them together tightly and having no intention of letting go anytime soon. 


	10. Chapter 10

Relief quickly evaporated into steamy lust. Now that they both knew where each other stood, neither man was willing to tamp down their desire any longer. Sherlock’s shirt rasped against John’s bare chest, catching on his erect nipples and drew a shiver from him. Sherlock growled predatorily and shoved John back onto his mattress where he bounced slightly, a laugh bubbling up from his belly. 

 

“I fail to see the humor here,” Sherlock said as his lips trailed down John’s tempting neck. 

 

John curled his hand into Sherlock’s hair, unable to keep his smile at bay. “I’m happy, most people laugh when they’re happy.”

 

At that, Sherlock lifted his head, a shy smile curling his delicate lips. “I’m happy, too, John.”

 

John gently cupped Sherlock’s cheeks and kissed him sweetly once, before pulling back to look at him in his big, beautiful, ethereal eyes. He hadn’t forgotten all the wanting, the dreams, the kisses, the near-haves on their journey. He was fit to burst with need for Sherlock. He had told himself that he would make himself wait until he had proven himself a hero worthy of Sherlock. But with the proof that his love was returned, in the comforts of a richly padded bed, all but naked, he found it difficult to care about denying himself what they both so clearly wanted. He licked his lips, noting that Sherlock watched him do so, as he assessed the maddeningly gorgeous man in his lap. 

 

Before, in the woods, John had seen the same level of arousal and desire in Sherlock’s eyes. But it was the fear that had made him rethink everything and made him put their satisfaction on hold. He thought for sure that Sherlock was just wanting to find comfort in anyone’s arms before marriage, despite his urgent claims that John was special to him. Now, as he took in his love’s face, he found not a single trace of the fear that colored his desire. Its absence decided John’s next move. 

 

He leaned in once more to press a chaste kiss against Sherlock’s lips before whispering against them, “remember how I told you last night that I wanted to give you everything? That you deserved better?”

 

“Yes, John.”

 

“I still want that. I love you-”

 

“I love you, too, John-”

 

“Let me finish, you prat,” John said, smiling as he kissed Sherlock’s cheek.

 

“But if you do, you’re going to stop us again and I just-”

 

“Hush,” John soothed, running his hands through Sherlock’s hair. He kissed Sherlock’s closed eyelids, his nose, finally his mouth. “What I was going to say, before you so rudely interrupted,” he said with a chuckle. “Was that I wanted to ask if you wanted to pick up from where we left off last night?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open and he pulled back to gape at John openly. “God, man, you’re infuriating! One minute you want me, the next you don’t, now you’re asking if I want you like I did last night!” He gripped John’s wrist and pressed his palm against his erection, hissing at the contact. “Is that answer enough? What changed between then and now? Is there something I’m not getting here?”

 

John grinned, running a thumb along Sherlock’s clothed length, enjoying the shudder of pleasure Sherlock gave at the movement. “What changed is that we just told each other we love each other and we are no longer out in the open woods. What changed is that we have a lovely bed, courtesy of your brother-”

 

“I forbid you from mentioning Mycroft whilst we’re engaged in sexual activities,” Sherlock said forcefully. “You might scare away my erection.”

 

John cupped Sherlock’s hard cock, assuring him that it wasn’t going away that easily. “What changed,” he continued on, “is that we have not had a large amount of drink in our blood and I am able to tell you, most articulately, how much I want you and what I would like to do with you.” Sherlock’s sharp intake of breath sharpened his own arousal to a fine point and he couldn’t help himself from one more quick taste of his lips before asking his question again. He pulled back, biting Sherlock’s lip as he did so, and asked, “Sherlock Holmes, would you share a night of passion with me?”

 

“God, yes,” Sherlock said breathlessly before his lips descended on John’s once more. 

 

John gripped him tightly, hands fisted in the fine linen of his shirt as their tongues tasted each other. He tugged the tails out from Sherlock’s trousers and smoothed his hands along the warm skin beneath. He sighed into John’s mouth, hips shifting restlessly atop him as they sought friction. Slowly, John inched the fabric up, up, up, until necessity parted their lips so John could slip the shirt off him and toss it to some corner of the room before diving back in. Their chests pressed together and they both let needy gasps out at the contact. Sherlock chased the feeling, wanting more and more of their bodies to touch. He pushed John back to lay fully on the large mattress, dropping his weight into John in an effort to cover him completely. 

 

John smiled into the kiss, enchanted by Sherlock’s eagerness. His enthusiasm was something to behold and he felt deeply honored to be the only person to receive it from Sherlock in abundance. John let him explore for a few minutes as he pleased, hands roaming over his chest, arms, and sides as his lips mapped out John’s neck. He relished the attention he received from Sherlock, basking in it. But when his movements became uncertain, doubt creeping in about what to do next, John took control of the situation. 

 

In one swift motion, John flipped them so their positions were reversed. Sherlock looked up at him with undisguised lust and awe that John felt down to the tip of prick. He hadn’t gained a reputation for nothing; he was good,  _ very _ good, at all manners involving sex. And he would use his knowledge to blow Sherlock’s mind bit by glorious bit. 

 

Starting at Sherlock’s lips, he kissed him, sucking his swollen bottom lip between his teeth before trailing his tongue southwards. He lightly dragged his tongue over his Adam’s apple, sucking it into his mouth, smugly relishing the helpless twitching of Sherlock’s hands and hips at the foreign sensation. Relinquishing his throat, John kissed light pecks down his neck until he reached the juncture of neck and shoulder where bit down more firmly. Sherlock clenched around him, a high pitched “John” escaping him just before John’s teeth released his flesh. He licked over the reddened skin, knowing a mark would appear the next morning. His kisses skimmed down, down, down, stopping at Sherlock’s nipples next. Fingers gripped John’s hair as he tortured the pert nubs between his lips and a litany of “ohs”, “Gods”, and “Johns” enveloped him. 

 

“Fuck, God,  _ please! _ ,” Sherlock cried out. 

 

John knew what he was asking for but he teased, “please what, love? Tell me.” He left soft, chaste kisses against Sherlock’s belly, drifting steadily downward.

 

“Please touch me, or let me touch you, something, anything,” he gasped, pleading. 

 

“I told you,” John said placatingly as he kissed above the waist of Sherlock’s trousers, “that I would tell you what I wanted to do to you, remember?” Sherlock didn’t answer but John went on regardless. “I want to kiss you everywhere, already making good progress on that.” He fingered the waist of his trousers and said, “I want to pull these off you and then touch you everywhere.” He ran a hand down Sherlock’s clothed thighs, making him shiver. “I want to know what you taste like, what you sound like when you’re on the edge of orgasm, what you feel like inside and out.” Sherlock was staring openly at him, eyes half-lidded with arousal as his chest heaved. John kissed his navel once more before saying, “but first thing’s first. Let’s get these off you, yes?”

 

Wordlessly, Sherlock helped him undo the fastenings on his trousers and shoved at them as John pulled to drag them off his legs. Next came his small clothes and then Sherlock was blissfully naked, laid out like a feast for him. John sat back to admire all the alabaster beauty of Sherlock’s body, unable to stop his hands from running the length of him from shin to neck. Sherlock shivered and trembled beneath him, eyes squeezing shut as sensations swept over him. John settled above him, feeling their erections press against their bellies as he kissed him deeply. 

 

Sherlock tore his mouth away and said, “I want to see you, too.”

 

“You do see me,” John said, being purposefully coy. Sherlock whined in frustration, fingers digging into John’s arse to emphasize what he meant. Not wanting to be unnecessarily mean, John slid down Sherlock’s body until he was able to step off the bed. Making sure he had Sherlock’s attention, he slowly tugged off his smallclothes until he was as naked as Sherlock. 

 

Sherlock’s eyes roamed over him as intimately as a caress and John’s cock twitched at the appreciation. John cupped himself, staving off his arousal for only a moment before Sherlock growled and grabbed his arm, dragging him back to bed. 

 

At the first contact of their bared cocks, they both hissed and moaned in need. Swiftly, they arranged themselves so that John was kneeling between Sherlock’s legs, pelvises grinding into each other. 

 

“Oh,” Sherlock gasped as they rocked into each other. 

 

“Better without the clothes? Laying down instead of standing,” John asked, already knowing the answer.

 

“Yes,” Sherlock answered. “Fuck, yes! Oh, John!” 

 

John kissed him, hands grasping onto Sherlock’s hips as he slowly thrusted atop him. Sherlock writhed beneath him and John wanted to take pity on him. “Ready for it to get better?”

 

“It gets better,” Sherlock asked, awe clear in his voice.

 

“Oh,  _ so _ much better,” he promised as he pulled back to lick his palm. He saw skepticism and a small amount of disgust on Sherlock’s face but that all disappeared when he wrapped his moistened hand around both their lengths. 

 

Sherlock clenched his thighs around John’s waist and arched up into him, thrusting into his fist. “Oh, fuck!”

 

“I told you,” John said smugly, fist sliding over them both, ever increasing in speed. 

 

“You’re a genius! Fuck, God, yes, John!” He panted and moaned beneath John’s ministrations and each exhalation of pleasure that rolled off Sherlock’s tongue went straight down John’s spine to the tip of his prick. Every sound spurred him on until they were both thrusting into John’s fist, chasing their end. 

 

“God, you’re perfect, Sherlock,” John gasped into the man’s mouth. “Perfect, brilliant, sexy-”

 

“John! I-”

 

“Yes, do it, come on! Come for me,” John urged, hand squeezing tighter and moving faster in an effort to bring Sherlock to the brink. 

 

“Fuck, John!” Sherlock’s body spasmed and writhed in the wake of his orgasm. His fingernails bit into John’s skin and his legs clamped around John’s hips as his cock spurted between their bellies. After several seconds of clenching, Sherlock slumped against the bed; twitching, sated, spent. 

 

It didn’t take long for John to follow. With the slick left in the aftermath of Sherlock’s orgasm, John’s fist was obscenely wet and he used that to bring himself off, crying out Sherlock’s name as he spilled onto Sherlock’s stomach. He collapsed onto his forearm, to keep from crushing Sherlock as his body twitched with the effects of his orgasm. He buried his face into Sherlock’s neck, scenting the heady musk of sex and satisfaction. He kissed the damp skin there and said, “I love you. So very much, Sherlock.”

 

“I love you, John.” He clutched at John’s back, keeping him close. “Don’t move. Stay?”

 

John smiled, pressing more lazy kisses against his neck and shoulder. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised.

 

They laid together in the quiet for several long minutes until they began to shiver. Not from desire, but from the chill of the night air and, reluctantly, John got up to begin their clean up. He walked over to the basin, helpfully supplied with water, to wet a cloth and clean them both up. He reverently wiped away the evidence of their love from Sherlock’s skin, kissing the damp skin after it was gone as if to seal their joining into his skin. Then he tossed the cloth away and prodded Sherlock under the covers. 

 

“Stay the night with me,” John asked him. 

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock said, voice drowsy. 

 

John smiled and collected Sherlock into his arms, loving every inch of unclothed skin between them. Their legs tangled together as their arms wrapped around each other, perfectly content. The room grew quiet once more and he almost fell asleep before Sherlock roused him once more. “I didn’t think you would love me in return.”

 

John’s arms squeezed tighter, defensively. He asked, “why would you say that? I told you in the woods how important you were to me. I thought you were the one who wouldn’t love me.”

 

Sherlock ducked his face, hiding his eyes from John’s gaze. “There’s something I never told you. About the spell.”

 

“The one I broke?”

 

Sherlock nodded, eyes closed against John’s view. “I told you the basics of how it worked and why I put myself under. But there’s something else. Something upon which the whole spell hinged.” John hummed in the affirmative, prompting him to continue. Sherlock hesitated before saying, “I didn’t tell you that there was more than panic over my marriage. There was a fight with Mycroft just before I left. I told him that I didn’t want to be married, that I didn’t love Irene and she didn’t love me either. That we weren’t a good match because we didn’t want each other. That I wanted to marry for love, not politics.”

 

“What did he say?”

 

“That true love didn’t exist. That I was being childish and to stop acting like a spoiled brat and start behaving like a prince.” He inhaled deeply before continuing. “Well, I wanted to prove to him that my life was  _ mine _ , no one else’s. That there was true love and that I would not marry without it. So...in my anger, I packed my things and left to find a place to set my plan into motion. I rode fast from the palace and heard of an empty tower far from my kingdom where I could spend eternity. It didn’t take long to gather the ingredients I needed for the potion I had to drink in order to cast it or make the place suitably presentable for when my brother tracked me down.”

 

John’s heart hammered in his chest. “You cast the spell on you with the stipulation that only your true love could wake you.”

 

“Yes.”

 

John swallowed thickly, equal parts terrified and elated. “Why didn’t you tell me when we first met? Why hide it for so long?”

 

Sherlock raised his head, finally looking at John in the eye. “Because...just because you were my true love didn’t mean that I was yours. Love is a tricky thing, John. It’s a magic all its own. It’s everchanging, has a life of its own, and often dependent on another person. You can love something or someone without them ever knowing or loving you in return. I was already trapped in a marriage.” He stroked John’s cheek with a finger. “I didn’t want to trap you with the knowledge of who you were to me. I didn’t want you to feel obligated to me, especially if you didn’t feel the same.” He looked incredibly sad, eyes watery. “And I’ve gone and done it, anyway.”

 

“Oh Sherlock,” John said softly, sitting up and enveloping him in a hug. “You didn’t trap me. I am not obligated to anything. I love you because you’re you. Because it’s fate.” 

 

“But what about my betrothal,” Sherlock asked, voice shaky. “Now that we both know, how can I bear to be parted from you?”

 

John’s heart clenched with fear. “We’ll find a way. Don’t write us off before we’ve begun,” John pleaded. He pulled back to kiss Sherlock, pouring all his love into the kiss. When he pulled back, tears had slipped over Sherlock’s lashes making his eyes glittery with emotion. He swiped his thumb under Sherlock’s eyes to wipe the moisture away, kissing him once more. “Nothing will stop me from loving you. I will do whatever it takes to keep you,” he promised.

 

Sherlock looked at him for a long minute before proclaiming, “I believe you.”

 

“Good.” John urged him to lay beside him again, pulling the duvet up under their chins. He pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s hair. He was about to drift off again before another thought nudged at him. 

 

“Sherlock?”

 

“Yes, John?”

 

“You said Mycroft told you about the quest to bring down Moriarty.”

 

“Yes? What of it?”

 

“Did you take the quest?”

 

John felt him smile against his chest. “What do you take me for? Of course I did.”

 

A plan formulated itself in John’s mind and he asked, “do you plan to go alone?”

 

Sherlock swatted his side lazily and said, “are you daft? Of course not. I may be a powerful wizard when I’m at full strength but not even I can bring him down alone.” He yawned heavily. “Why do you ask?”

 

John huffed an amused laugh. “Take a guess.”

 

Silence. Followed by an excited gasp. Sherlock’s head snapped up, almost chinning John in the process. Mischief and excitement shone in Sherlock’s tired eyes. “You have a plan for us.”

 

“That I do,” John declared. “I do indeed.” 

 

“Tell me,” Sherlock demanded. 

 

John was tempted. He wanted to get a jump on things and plan as a team. But the night was stretching fast into morning. And if he was successful with his plan, they wouldn’t have long to enjoy the bed they found themselves in. He kissed Sherlock once on the lips before saying, “it’ll keep. Sleep now, we’ll discuss it in the morning.”

 

Sherlock grumbled under his breath and got comfortable again, a testament to how tired he really was if he wasn’t putting up a fight about being told to wait. Before drifting off, finally, he whispered, “I love you.”

 

“Love you,” Sherlock answered back softly. 

  
John knew he would never tire of hearing those words from Sherlock’s lips. Would never tire of saying them in return. He vowed to himself that he would do whatever it took to keep them together, whatever it took so that he would never fall asleep without the comfort of Sherlock’s weight beside him ever again. In the morning, they would plan for forever but, for the moment, he would enjoy a night safe in the arms of his true love. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is folks! The moment you've all been waiting for! The love confession and the sexy times all in one! Hope you enjoyed, I know I certainly did!


	11. Chapter 11

John awoke to something he had been so sure he had lost forever just one day prior: Sherlock curled up snugly his arms. Knowing how close he had come to never knowing that his love for Sherlock was returned, knowing how much further they had to go in order to keep themselves together, turned his thoughts sour. Looking down at the soft, sleeping face of the real love of his life a roiling mixture of fondness, fear, determination, and admiration bubbled inside him. 

 

The pale sunlight of the rising dawn bathed them both in light. Where it touched Sherlock’s skin it turned him into watered honey; shimmery, ethereal, a hint of gold but fleeting. He almost looked fae in the dawn and John contemplated going back to sleep just so they could have a few more moments of rest to savor together. But necessity kept him awake. He had a mission and it required planning. 

 

His plan of attack was, in theory, simple. He would request a private audience with Mycroft and Sherlock to request a place in the quest and, upon successful completion, Sherlock’s hand in marriage. Normally, he wouldn’t have a chance in hell of being allowed to marry a prince but in the face of fate and true love, Mycroft had to see reason didn’t he? And if what Sherlock told him was true, that Irene wasn’t keen on marriage either, then maybe they had a real shot of nullifying the betrothal. 

 

It was mad. A complete nutter of a plan, but John had to try. How could he let another person he loved walk out of his life to marry another? And not just any person, but his true love! God, how many times could he think about the cliche of “true love” before it lost all meaning?  _ Hopefully never,  _ he answered himself silently. 

 

While he silently rehearsed his grand words, Sherlock stirred against him. His nose scrunched, his eyelashes fluttered, and his muscles stretched and curled against John’s body as Sherlock slowly wakened. It was not unlike the unfurling of a butterfly after hibernation. John watched, rapt, sure that he could watch the man forever. He sighed gently against John’s neck, kissing it once before saying groggily, “that’s really creepy, you know?”

 

John chuckled softly, kissing Sherlock’s disheveled curls. “Pot calling kettle.”

 

Sherlock scoffed, burrowing into John’s neck. “Of the two of us, you’ve spent more time staring than I.”

 

“Can you blame me? You are very stare-worthy.”

 

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Sherlock said, muffled against his neck as he was.

 

“Is that so?” 

 

“Mhmm.”

 

“In that case,” John said smiling as he trailed kisses across the top of Sherlock’s head. “I better not tell you how gorgeous you are right now.” He dropped kisses against the shell of Sherlock’s ear, his ear lobe, the soft spot beneath it. “How unfair it is that, as rumpled as you are-”

 

“Rumpled?-”

 

“-you still look absolutely edible.” To prove his point, John nibbled the top of Sherlock’s shoulder, smiling at the small squirm he received in return. “In fact, it’s your bedraggled tresses, the smell of our love from last night,”John continued, trailing his nose across Sherlock’s shoulder and down past his armpit. Sherlock giggled lightly, allowing himself to be turned onto his back. John settled himself between his thighs and continued his praising, “that makes you irresistible.”

 

“You, Sir John Watson, are a menace,” Sherlock said, smile evident in his voice. His hand found it’s way into John’s hair, fondly petting him. John’s eyes flicked up to see that the man had yet to open his eyes but there was plenty color in his cheeks and John was encouraged to continue. 

 

“Never said I wasn’t, my love.” He dropped light kisses across Sherlock’s collarbones. Sherlock’s breathing was even but coming quicker than its sleepy pace from a moment before. The stirrings of morning wood against John’s stomach encouraged him further. “But since flattery will get me nowhere, perhaps I shouldn’t mention how gone I am over you. How your voice turns my insides to quivering, your gaze sets my heart to beating like a battle drum.” He ran his hand up Sherlock’s side, grazing over his nipple to land just over Sherlock’s heart. He mimicked a drum beat with his hand, “buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum, buh-bum.”

 

Sherlock twitched with the attention, biting his lip against any noises he wanted to make. Swallowing thickly he asked, “is that so?”

 

“Oh yes. But why mention it? Or mention how your kisses melt me completely like honey from a comb? Or how your sighs set my loins afire-”

 

“Perhaps you should see a doctor about that,” Sherlock said, interrupting with a giggle.

 

John laughed at that and made to get up. “Perhaps you’re right, perhaps I should ask him about my burning loins.” 

 

He pushed himself up, making to crawl away but Sherlock was having none of it. His eyes snapped open and a predatory grin took over his face as he held fast to John, pulling him back in. “Don’t you dare move.”

 

“I thought flattery would get me nowhere?”

 

“It won’t,” Sherlock said, kissing him. “I don’t know why you bother.” 

 

John kissed him back, uncaring about the sleep sourness of Sherlock’s mouth as he licked into it. “Clearly, I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

 

“Absolutely.” Sherlock kissed him harder, letting his hands slide down John’s back towards his backside. 

 

“You’re so gorgeous,” John said into his mouth between kisses. “Brilliant, amazing, mad as a hatter, and I love every bit of you, you great, preening bird.”

 

Finally, Sherlock couldn’t take the saccharine sweet praise any longer and pulled back to cover his face against the blush creeping up his neck and cheeks. “Jaaawn!”

 

“Yes, love?”

 

He peeked between his fingers and said, “you are absolutely ridiculous and I love you too.”

 

Feeling victorious, John smiled and kissed his fingers and said, “that’s all I wanted to hear.” He hefted himself up and went in search of clothes. He tugged on his trousers and shirt, leaving everything undone as he reached for Sherlock’s hand to pull him up. “Now, up you get. We’ve got work to do.”

 

Sherlock groaned, taking John’s hand. “Can’t I just do you and call it work?”

 

John laughed, drawing the man into a kiss. He slapped his bum playfully and said, “I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted that I could be labelled as ‘work’.” 

 

Smirking, Sherlock ignored the comment. The playfulness of their waking slowly dissipated, replaced with the impending need for action.  “Tell me your plan,” he said plainly, dressing himself. 

 

“My plan is to discuss with your brother the quest, ask his permission for me to join you, and to impress upon him the depth of our love and the necessity of dissolving your betrothal. He’s a reasonable man, surely he won’t keep you locked in a marriage when there’s proof that your heart belongs to another.”

 

Sherlock frowned, worry crossing his face. “I’m afraid he will. My family is not known for their sentimental habits. My parents are an alliance and it’s only by chance, and prolonged exposure to each other, that they are fond of each other. Mycroft, himself, is due to be married soon too, apparently.”

 

John blinked, surprised. “Is that so?”

 

Sherlock nodded. “A number of years ago, Mycroft’s original betrothed died in a fever that overtook her kingdom. When I left mummy and father were looking for a replacement.”

 

John grimaced. “Replacement? That sounds rather callous.”

 

“That’s mummy and father,” Sherlock sighed, tugging on his boots. “He’s going to be married to a Dowager Queen, Elizabeth Smallwood of Norbury. And I know for a fact that he does not enjoy company of others and is only marrying to form stronger alliances. He has always been determined that I should follow in his footsteps.” Sherlock smiled sadly at his feet. “He doesn’t know that you know about the ‘true love’ stipulation of the spell. He thinks you’ll leave me once you get your reward.”

 

A breath of silence and then he looked up at John, uncertainty in his eyes. “You won’t, will you?”

 

John crossed the short distance between them to cup his cheeks and kiss him softly. “Of course not, you daft cow. You’ve been very clear that your family doesn’t go for in for this true love business and I expect an uphill battle with this. Still, we have proof on our side.” He kissed his forehead and pulled Sherlock’s head to rest against his chest. “Did your brother tell you how many knights he sent to wake you before me? Ten. Ten men who all failed. That’s a sizable amount of people to prove that your spell worked.”

 

Sherlock thought about it, hand coming up to fiddle with his bottom lip. “I suppose.”

 

“And if the spell worked, keeping all those other knights from waking you, waiting on me,” he said with confidence. He pulled back and wiggled his eyebrows jauntily, earning a chuckle from Sherlock. “Then how can he refuse our situation?”

 

“Easily. He’s a big, fat arsehole who thinks he can run my life. He determined for an alliance between Posh-ville and Belgravia.”

 

“An alliance that produces mutual heirs, you mean?”

 

“Exactly.”

 

John frowned. “You don’t happen to have any long lost brothers, do you?”

 

Sherlock snorted in amusement. “No.” He looked up at John, determination and trepidation on his face. “Can’t we just run? Forget the quest, my family, the marriage, all of it? Just run and be rid of them all?”

 

It would be wonderful to just say yes. To run and grab Greg and hop on their horses to take off to parts unknown and build a new life together. But Mycroft was a resourceful man with a whole kingdom at his disposal. If he was able to track Sherlock down and maintain his dogged determination to waking him for two years, a little dash out the back door wouldn’t stop him from hunting them down. John could just see it ending at the point of a sword in his neck and he wasn’t going to give Mycroft the satisfaction. Not to mention that plan was rife with cowardice and John didn’t want to take the coward’s way out. 

 

At least, not until all other roads had been explored first. 

 

John shook his head. “There’s only one option we can take with pride.”

 

“Pride is for fools. It only ends up getting you killed.”

 

“So does deceit. I want to show your family I’m worthy of you, despite me being just a knight-”

 

“Just a knight-”

 

“-and the only way to do that is to be brave and demand your hand in reward for some great feat. If your brother wants an alliance with Belgravia so bad he can marry Irene himself.”

 

Sherlock pulled a face like he’d sucked on something sour. “Irene would never go for that. He’s vile.”

 

“Then he’ll have to find an acceptable means of compromise. I won’t give up on us.”

 

Sherlock didn’t reply to that. Instead he gently pushed John away so he could stand and make his way to the door. He opened it and John felt his heart sink.  _ Was he pushing me away? Was he so sure we would fail? How can true love fail?  _ But just as Sherlock stepped through the door, he turned to John and said, “I have to breakfast with my parents this morning. Can’t very well meet them looking like this.” He gestured at their clothes. “Come on, we’re going to my rooms. I’m sure we can find something suitable.”

 

John was stunned. “You...you want me to meet your parents?”

 

“Of course. I love you, after all. They should see who has ownership of my heart. See who they’d be hurting if they sided with Mycroft and took you from me.”

 

John swallowed the lump of panic that threatened to crawl up his throat. He was prepared to fight with Mycroft, to go into battle for Sherlock. But meeting parents...there was so much at stake. Squashing down his trepidation, he stepped out the door with Sherlock. “Lead the way, then. I’d like see where a prince sleeps.”

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

The tour of Sherlock’s rooms was nothing short of impressive. Just as Mycroft had said, Sherlock’s rooms were readied to house a prince once more, complete with all the modern comforts. A private privvy chamber for washing and expelling, a separate dressing room full to bursting with an expansive wardrobe and full length mirror, a sitting room with tea service, and a truly gigantic, plush bed. John couldn’t help but gape at the extravagance of it all. His confidence in being able to provide for them both in the face of such splendor. He would be able to keep them comfortable but he would never be able to give Sherlock  _ this  _ level of comfort.  _ Will I ever be enough _ , he wondered worryingly. 

 

“Stop fussing,” Sherlock said over his shoulder as he walked into the privvy room to wash himself. “If you’re thinking that this luxurious birdcage is something I expect out of our life together you’re daft.”

 

John rolled his eyes, following him into the privvy chamber. When he walked inside he expected Sherlock to be waited on hand and foot, bathed by servants like any other royal. Instead, he watched as the man shamelessly stripped and poured cool water into a basin. He dipped a cloth and worked it over his body quickly, hissing as the cold water trickled over him. 

 

“Do you dress yourself, too?”

 

“I am no longer a child incapable of working buttons, John.”

 

“So I see, it’s just...you’re not like the other royals.”

 

Sherlock smirked at him, running the cloth under his pits. “Been in many royal bedchambers, have you?”

 

Damn him, John blushed, ducking his head. “Not as such. Just observed secondhand, talked with the maids.”

 

“In the cold light of dawn, I’m sure,” Sherlock said with a small bite.

 

“Feeling insecure about that, are we?” John walked up behind him to envelope his damp beauty in his arms. “I’ll not be conversing with maids when I have you to keep me in endless chatter.”

 

Sherlock snorted and tossed the wet cloth at him, telling him to wash up while he searched for something that would fit John. He came back carrying a pair of stunning black trousers, a deep red shirt, and a matching doublet of red and black. He thrust them at John, explaining, “something from when I was younger. Shorter in the torso, so it should fit there. But might be a bit tight in the shoulders. Your own boots will have to do, too.”

 

John fingered the fine material, too scared to guess how much it was worth. “I think it’ll do,” he said, no meeting Sherlock’s eyes. Knowing what John was thinking, he didn’t press John further for commentary. Instead, he went off in search for something for himself, leaving John alone to dress. 

 

When he was dressed, John went back to the sitting room to await his prince so that they could meet his parents for breakfast. A nervous giggle slipped out at the absurdity of his situation and he wondered, not for the first or for the last time, how his life landed him in such a state. He stared into the embers of the previous night’s fire, still working over what he would say, when Sherlock drew his attention with a clearing of his throat. 

 

When John turned to face him he was struck by how stunning Sherlock was. He was so used to the pale blue and silver that graced him throughout their journey that he had never imagined what a darker color would do for Sherlock. And what it did was make him look downright sinful. There he stood, clad in black and deep purple to compliment the red that John wore and John’s mouth watered. He looked like sex incarnate and John had half a mind to throw him down on Sherlock’s ridiculous bed just to consume him instead of breakfast. 

 

Seeing the mischief glittering in John’s eye, Sherlock smiled proudly and tugged his cuffs to straighten them and said, “come along now, John. Mustn't keep the family waiting.”

 

 

\~*~/

 

 

Breakfast was as comfortable affair as John had imagined. In that it wasn’t comfortable at all and John was thankful that looks couldn’t, in fact, kill. Sherlock’s parents looked on disapprovingly as John was served alongside Sherlock, far above his station. They offered one syllable answers to questions that John directed them even as Sherlock spoke animatedly at everything everyone else had to say. Mycroft was only a modicum warmer, offering questions to John in return but still looking on with reproach. Thankfully, no one mentioned the fact that John wore Sherlock’s clothes. He just counted himself lucky that he managed to gain an audience with Mycroft shortly after breakfast and decided to keep mostly to himself, not wanting to press his luck. 

 

John sagged in relief when they were dismissed and let out into the hall. 

 

“Bloody hell, are all the meals like that?”

 

“Actually, you faired quite well.”

 

“How do you figure?”

 

“You were allowed to eat at the table.” He lead the way to Mycroft’s offices. “If you think this is bad, you should see the Christmas dinners.”

 

“God, no,” John said in horror. 

 

They were made to wait in Mycroft’s offices for half an hour. John spent the time forcibly refraining from fidgeting, sitting in a chair and keeping to himself. Sherlock spent the time perusing the books on Mycroft’s shelves, speaking aloud his deductions on them and expressing his excitement over possibly borrowing this tome or that. John had no opinion to offer, seeing as he had never seen more than a handful of books in his life and had no idea what some of the topics Sherlock was waxing poetic about even were. 

 

“Oh, he acquired one on beekeeping,” Sherlock said with delight, plucking it from the shelf.

 

“Beekeeping? Is that something you’d really like to do? Also, are you supposed to be touching those?”

 

Sherlock shrugged, thumbing through the pages. “Who cares? And yes, I’d love to start a few hives of my own. Before I went to sleep I had just started my own apiary research.”

 

“Sherlock, do put that away,” Mycroft said, striding into the room with purpose.

 

Sherlock complied and said, “you simply must let me borrow that one, sometime, brother dear.”

 

“We’ll see.” He gestured for Sherlock to sit next to John on one of the four chairs that sat in the center of the room for easy conversation. He then called for tea and waited for his servant to depart before addressing his brother and John directly. “I know what you’re going to say.”

 

“Then you shouldn’t fight against fate,” Sherlock stated plainly.

 

“I agree.”

 

Sherlock jolted in surprise, eyes going wide. “I beg your pardon?”

 

“My dear, baby brother,” Mycroft drawled affectionately. “I would be a fool to argue with fate. Contrary to what you might believe, I do understand your...position a little better than the last time we spoke. Even I can’t ignore what’s right in front of me. The fact that you are awake and gaping like a caught fish in my rooms is evidence enough.”

 

John looked at Sherlock and saw that he was, in fact, staring open mouthed at his brother in complete surprise. John had to admit that he was also shocked at Mycroft’s easy acceptance of their love. Not waiting for the other shoe to drop, John asked, “just like that? No muss, no fuss?”

 

Mycroft quirked an eyebrow at him. “Would you rather have a fight? A duel perhaps, to gain my acceptance?”

 

John shrugged. “Not particularly keen on a duel but I had expected as much.”

 

“Yes, I’ll bet. I know from the stories that you are a brave man. Bravery is the kindest word for stupidity, by far, but I also know you’re not a stupid man. No matter what fate says, my brother wouldn’t tie himself to a man who hadn’t a brain in his head. I’ve done my homework on you, Sir John Watson,” Mycroft said with an air of mock amusement. “Both parents dead. Orphaned with your sister until she, too, died. Been a hero since the ripe, old age of ten when you defeated an ogre.” He leaned in and stage whispered, “kudos on that one. Impressive.” He took a little sheet of paper out of his inner breast pocket and read off John’s accomplishments, one by one. The list included two slain dragons, three burned witches, several rescued damsels, and one embarrassing duel involving mud wrestling instead of swords, amongst other things. While he read aloud, the servant reappeared with tea and served, seemingly oblivious to the reading happening in front of them. John’s eyes darted between one unimpressed Holmes and a very impressed Holmes until Mycroft came to the last in the list. “And finally, rescuing my brother from himself and bringing him home just in time to put himself in danger to save the kingdom. Have I forgotten anything?”

 

John shook his head, thankful that his origin story had been maintained through Mycroft’s digging. “You’ve been very thorough.”

 

“I tend to be when discussing my brother.”

 

“What’s the deal, Mycroft,” Sherlock snapped, suddenly defensive. “Why all this talk of sentiment and evidence and trotting out John’s history. He damn well knows his accomplishments. Get to the point.”

 

John put a gentling hand over Sherlock’s as it clutched the armrest of his chair. He, too, was curious but he knew snapping wouldn’t make Mycroft tell them any faster.

 

“I’m merely getting to know your intended, Sherlock.”

 

“Bollocks,” Sherlock muttered.

 

Mycroft tsked at him. “Whatever happened to those etiquette lessons we went through?”

 

Sherlock gestured vaguely, “must’ve been forgotten.”

 

“Clearly.” Mycroft straightened in his seat and sipped his cooling tea. “Very well, I’ll get to the point. While our parents know of all your accomplishments, Sir John, they do not approve of Sherlock...cavorting with someone of a lower class. They don’t think it appropriate.”

 

Sherlock scrutinized his brother before stating, “you never told them about the spell’s parameters.”

 

“I told them enough.”

 

Sherlock frowned. “Just not the most important part.”

 

“They didn’t need to know.” 

 

“Why in God’s name not? It proves my point! That true love exists and that I was right and should be free to marry for love!”

 

“Because they don’t care, Sherlock. When we first found you, we tried to wake you ourselves. Each of us kissed you because we love you. You didn’t specify romantic love and so I thought to subvert your parameters but, much as it pains me to add to your ego, you were very good at binding the spell. When it didn’t work, I assumed you had mislead me in the type of spell you cast. I told our parents that I would find a way to wake you, even if it took the rest of my life. But since you so “helpfully” didn’t leave much for me to work with, I was wary about counter potions to wake you.” He sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “While I searched for something to bring you back I sent heroes to try and wake you on the off chance that you had been telling the truth. Truth be told, I hadn’t expected John to wake you.”

 

“But I did. And I brought him back.”

 

“Yes, you did.” The smile Mycroft turned on John was the first genuine one John had witnessed in his brief acquaintance with him and it gave him pause. But then he frowned and stared into his cup. “And just in time, it seems. Moriarty has been causing trouble and we need you, Sherlock.”

 

“So you said, last night.”

 

“Yes, well,” Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes. “You stormed out of here in such a fit that I couldn’t finish telling you all that’s transpired while you were napping.”

 

“I needed to-”

 

“Confront John over not telling you the main reason for your return, yes yes, I know that your biggest concern is your contract with Irene Adler of Belgravia and getting it dissolved. But Moriarty is the bigger problem at the moment.”

 

“So tell us now,” John prompted. “Tell us what Moriarty has been up to. My village has been mostly untouched by him but we’ve all heard the stories.”

 

“He’s mobilizing. He’s gathering a group of dark wizards, stirring up trouble and no information is coming forward as to what they’re planning. There’s been a resurgence of hexes and dark magic pooling around him, disrupting the balance. He’s growing more and more dangerous and we need to know why and, ultimately, stop him from whatever he’s doing. The only thing that we can reliable gather from captured agents of his is that “the East Wind is coming”. We don’t know, yet, what that means.”

 

“And you need us,” Sherlock supplied.

 

“What I need is you, the most powerful wizard at my disposal. Having an experienced knight at your side is just icing on the proverbial cake.”

 

Sherlock huffed. “Who says I’m at your disposal?”

 

“Sherlock,” John and Mycroft grumbled in tandem. The two men shared a look before Mycroft continued. “We both have much to gain by you taking this quest. You said that you’d take whatever quest I gave you last night without even hearing the facts. We both know that you want to do this. Don’t be argumentative now when I can help you get what you want.”

 

“Which is to be broken of my betrothal and free to marry as I choose,” Sherlock replied. 

 

“Without throwing away your title, either.”

 

“How do you plan to manage that,” John asked skeptically.

 

“I’m well aware of Irene’s proclivities and her relationship with her handmaiden. She may be discrete but there’s always someone willing to talk if the price is right. I’m sure that Belgravia and Posh-ville can come to an arrangement that keeps both parties happy.”

 

“And how do we get Mummy and Father on board with this, hmm,” Sherlock asked, unconvinced.

 

“We pose John’s participation in the quest as vital and have him request your hand formally as a reward for completion of the quest.”

 

Slightly irritated at having been beaten to the punch, John leaned over to tell Sherlock, “it’s basically the plan I was going to go with. Never thought it would work, seeing as it was likely your family would see me drawn and quartered rather than on quest with you. But now it seems like the best way to go.”

 

Sherlock scowled, clearly not happy with keeping the true nature of his and John’s love under wraps. Steam practically poured from his ears and John decided he’d had enough watching his love stew. He took Sherlock’s hand and watched as, magically, Sherlock relaxed and sank into his chair, the fight flowing out of him with one small touch from John. Sherlock looked at him, searching him for any signs of cowardice or fear and seeing none he sighed and made to speak. 

 

“John, you’ve been on lots of quests.”

 

“I have.”

 

“Some of them bloody, terrifying, ending in death.”

 

“Some of them, yes.”

 

Sherlock smiled wryly at him and said, “care to go on one more?”

  
John grinned in return and gripped Sherlock’s hand tightly. He knew that, whatever happened, this was going to be the most important quest he would ever embark on. There was only one answer he could give. “God yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for this part of the stories, folks! But don't worry, part two is under construction so stay tuned for more of our galant knight John Watson and his wizardly love Prince Sherlock Holmes!


End file.
